Harry Potter Year 1

Privet Drive, Little Whinging was just as regular and plain as every other suburban village in England. Lawns lay trimmed and pampered, often seperated by a rainbow coloured bed of flowers. Important looking cars were parked in most of the drive ways, ready for the important business men to drive them to their important jobs. The houses were neatly stacked side-by-side, and everyone greeted each other with a wave and a smile when seen. But one family living in Number 4, Privet Drive tried much harder to be normal, and in the process ironically came across as the most un-normal family on the street. You see, this is where Mr. and Mrs. Dursley lived, with their son Dudley Dursley and their nephew Harry Potter.

Mr. Dursley was a large man. He had a short, stubby nose, beady black eyes, a Walrus-like moustache and liked to keep to himself as much as possible. Mrs. Dursley was the complete opposite. She was a skinny woman with icy blue eyes, stern lips and often gossiped over the fence with their neighbours. She took particular delight in mentioning Mr. Aswerth losing his job as many times as possible. Dudley Dursley was most like his father, inheritting his large frame and short stubby nose, and enjoyed raiding the fridge for any sweets he could find. But Harry Potter was nothing like them at all. He was a short skinny boy, with a thin face, a messy mop of black hair that stuck up in the most peculiar angles, and a pair of green eyes hidden behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses stuck together down the middle with masking tape. But the feature Harry took the most pleasure in, and one the neighbours gossiped about the most, was the lightning-shaped scar atop Harry's forehead, just above his right eye.

The Dursley's house, immaculately kept by Mrs. Dursley as always, was full of a rambunctious choir of Happy Birthdays.

"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Dudders, Happy Birthday to you!" shouted Mr. and Mrs. Dursley to their son, who sat at the kitchen table finishing his third helpings of breakfast.

"How many preshentsh do I havsh?" he said with a mouthful of fried eggs.

"33 dear," came the doting voice of Mrs. Dursley, clearly quite proud of the fact. "We made sure to get you one more than you got last year!"

"One more?!" Dudley roared. "Piers got 35 for his birthday last month!"

Any other family would have been taken aback at their son's outburst of only getting 33 presents for their birthday. The Dursleys were not any other family, though. Mrs. Dursley raced to Dudley's side, smoothening his hair.

"How about we take you to buy 3 more Duddykins? We'll just pop down the road and you can have anything you want."

Dudley seemed to struggle, wondering if 3 more presents would get him more than Piers' 35. He gave up and shrugged his shoulders, going back to stuffing his mouth with more bacon. Mrs. Dursley smiled, sitting back down while muttering "anything for my special prince".

Harry snorted. He was standing in the kitchen completely forgotten about, washing up the frying pan he used to cook their breakfast. He left himself some bacon and half a fried egg on the side, Mrs. Dursley monitoring how much food he had cooked himself beforehand. But 36 presents for his birthday! Harry was lucky if his birthday was even remembered by the Dursleys, and if it was, he'd be even more lucky to get anything more than a pair of Mr. Dursleys old socks. He wasn't surprised by this anymore though. He was almost 11 years old now, and he has been living with the Dursley for almost 10 years, and not once have they showered him in gifts and happy birthdays.

"You, boy." came Mr. Dursley's drawl from behind the newspaper. "You'll be going to Mrs. Figgs when we're out."

Harry groaned. "Do I have to?"

"Yes!" he replied, and folded up his newspaper before squinting his beady eyes at Harry. "And don't do anything ... weird!"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Harry hated going to Mrs. Figgs. Her house smelled of something he couldn't quite put his finger on, and she always told him the same story about one of her cats, Tubbles, chasing the Baxter's dog.

"But I could - "

"No buts!" Mrs. Dursley said forcefully, and pointed a skeleton-like finger in his direction. "You'll finish the washing up and go straight to Mrs. Figgs."

Harry sighed and went back to scrubbing the last bits of bacon from the pan. He wondered if anyone else had a life as dull and horrible as his own.

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"Ronald Weasley!" a shrill voice shouted, and it seemed to echo throughout a rather large house. "Just what have you and your brothers done to Ginny's pigmy doll!"

Up the rickety stairs on the third floor, sitting in one of the bedrooms sat three boys, both with flaming ginger hair and an expression of absolute terror on their face. Two of them were twins, a good foot or so taller than their younger brother, who was a short and stocky boy with freckles dashing his face.

"Told you we shouldn't have done it." said one of the twins.

"No, I told you we shouldn't have done it." came the other's reply.

"I told both of you we shouldn't have done it!" Ron shouted, and upon the booming footsteps echoing up the stairs, the twins shot out of the room and into their own. Ron quickly looked for an escape route. Looking at the window, he wondered if he could jump out without breaking too many bones, but it was too late. The door shot open and a woman with the same ginger hair stood at the door, a thin piece of wood grasped in her hand and a scowl on her face. Beside her was a young girl with the same ginger hair, tears across her face and a pink fluffy ball of a doll in her hand. It was saying in a sing-song voice "Ginny loves Harry Potter!" over and over again.

"What did I tell you about teasing your sister?"

"Mum, it wasn't me!" Ron said indignantly, but his worried face gave him away.

"You think I don't know when you're lying? Fred! George!" she shouted, and from the room across her popped the heads of the twins.

"Yes mother dearest?" they said in unison, batting their eyelids.

"Don't you give me that. I know you're both just as guilty as your brother! Downstairs, now!" she ordered, and all three of them shot downstairs quicker than you could say the Chudley Cannons won the Quidditch Championship.

"Told you we shouldn't have done it." Fred repeated.

"No, I told you we shouldn't have done it!" George said, poking his brother in the arm.

"Both of you shut it!" Ron said, scowling at the pair of them. Why does he let them drag him into these things.

"Can you all keep it quiet down there?" came a bossy voice from further upstairs. "I'm trying to study and it's rather hard when you great lumps keep shouting!"

"Oh, you were studying were you Perce?" Fred said, smiling towards George.

"You weren't studying your girlfriend's latest picture by any chance, were you?" said George, and they both bursted out laughing.

"Fred, George!" shouted their mother, and they raced into the kitchen with Mrs. Weasley following close behind them.

Sat at the table was Mr. Weasley, hidden behind the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. Mr. Weasley, just like all the other Weasleys, had flaming ginger hair, though his was certainly thinner and balding in places. He had the look of a well-fed man, usually because Mrs. Weasley encouraged everyone to have second and third helpings. "Growing boys" she always cooed.

"Boys," Mr. Weasley said, and all three of them stopped laughing. "It was a good joke" he whispered, sharing a smile with them. Mrs. Weasley appeared and he suddenly straightened up. "For doing that to your sister you can wash the dishes. No buts!" he said as all three of them opened their mouth to protest.

"Maybe this will teach you to be a bit more like your brother Percy." said Mrs. Weasley, putting the Pigmy doll on the table and pointing at it with the same thin piece of wood. It suddenly stopped singing about Harry Potter.

"Who wants to be more like a great big dolt." Fred whispered.

The twins were on washing up duty while Ron dried them. Grabbing a dishcloth, he wondered if anyone else had a life as dull and horrible as his own.

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In a small rural town in Kent lived the Grangers. Now compared to the Dursleys, the Grangers were everything that is normal. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were both succesful dentists with a young daughter, Hermione Granger. They were a loving and caring family, and unlike the Dursleys, they doted upon their daughter, who was exceedingly bright for her age. Right now sat at their kitchen table were all three. Mr. Granger looked like you'd expect of a dentist. He was average height, not skinny and neither large. He had brown hair parted down the side, wore a pair of glasses, and was currently shovelling scrambled egg into his mouth while glancing at the clock on the wall.

"You'll be lucky if you don't choke cramming your mouth full like that." Mrs. Granger said, pushing out her upper lip in disgust. Mrs. Granger, just like her daughter Hermione, had wild brown hair as if she stook her finger in a plug socket, which made her just the bit more intimidating to her husband. He grinned back sheepishly and pointed at the clock.

"I've got an appointment at 9. Can't be late. Poor Mr. Wilkens might need a tooth or two taken out." and he seemed rather excited about this. Mrs. Granger only shook her head.

"What are you going to be doing today, dear?" she asked, and Hermione looked up from one of the books surrounding her.

"Huh? ... Oh! I need to get started on my English homework. They gave us a ton of it to do this summer!" and just like her father, seeemed a tad bit more excited about homework than the other kids of her class. She let out a grin and showed two rather large front teeth, which Mr. Granger seemed to notice straight away.

"I do wish you'd have some braces, Hermione. In a few years those teeth will be as straight as ever."

"No!" she shouted, and slammed the book she was reading shut. "The kids at school pick on me enough as it is, I don't want to give them another reason."

"I thought we had a word with your headmaster about the bullying." Mrs. Granger questioned, but before Hermione could answer there was a light tapping at the door.

"Must be the postman." Mr. Granger said, and headed down the hall. Opening the door he was greeted by the most peculiar man he had ever seen, but being a private dentist, that wasn't all that unordinary. What was unordinary, though, was what the man was dressed in; a large flowing purple robe which whipped around two spindly legs in the summer breeze, a rather large and pointed hat, and a pair of half-moon spectacles halfway down his crooked nose. He had a large white beard that ran down to his waist, and peering at him was two rather luminescent blue eyes that seemed to twinkle with delight.

"Ah, Mr. Granger," he said as if he was greeting a friend. "May I come in for a moment? I do believe we have something to discuss."

Mr. Granger stood there with his mouth wide open, stammering "I uhhh...errrr...uhmmm" before the odd man interrupted.

"I do hope that was gibberish for yes." he said, smiling and stepping inside. Mrs. Granger, having overheard the conversation if you could call it that, was already halfway down the hallway to see what was happening.

"Mrs. Granger! So very nice to see you. I'm here to see both of you about Ms. Granger?"

Having managed to recollect himself, and at the intrusion of this man inviting himself inside and wanting to talk to them about Hermione, he stood infront of the old man.

"Wait just one minute. Who are you?" he ordered.

"Albus." the old man said, offering out his hand. "Albus Dumbledore."

Harry had finally managed to wrangle himself free from Mrs. Figg, turning down her offer for his fourth cup of tea. Shoving his coat around himself, which being a Dudley's hand-me-down reached past his knees, he bolted from her house.

"Do come back, Harry! It was so nice seeing you again." beamed Mrs. Figg, waving him away. Harry was already halfway down the street when she finally closed her door, and he felt a pang of guilt. It's not that he didn't like Mrs. Figg, she treated him much better than the Dursleys ever have, but if he had to listen to how Tubbles was her "bubbly baby boy" one more time he was going to vomit. The only reason his aunt and uncle sent him there was because Mrs. Figg was the only neighbour on the street willing to look after him anyway.

Before he knew it Harry had turned into the drive of the Dursley's house and noticed their car wasn't there. "Typical," he muttered. Thankfully he had watched his uncle place the spare house key under aunt Petunia's porcelain garden gnome several months before. Picking up the gnome, which stared at Harry with two suspiciously-squinting eyes, he took the key and unlocked the door and stepped inside. Something crunched under his feet and he noticed there were several letters on the floor, all addressed to himself.

"Who would send me anything?" Harry said, picking up one of the letters. A tingling sensation shot up his arm as soon as he touched it, and the address was even more weird.

Harry Potter
Smallest Bedroom,
Privet Drive
Little Whinging
RG12 9FG

Harry immediately opened the front door again and peered outside, looking for any one of Dudley's friends. They were probably playing a prank on him, it wouldn't be the first time. Harry remembered when they got him to believe uncle Vernon was being arrested for stealing office supplies from his work, and when Harry pointed and laughed at him... he shivered at the memory, scarcely wanting to remember his punishment. Seeing no sign of anyone outside, other than Mr. Willsbrough neatly trimming his garden, he headed back inside and shut the door.

"Suppose I might aswell open it and find out." he said, and ran his finger over the wax stamp sealing the envelope. It said in big, bold letters "HOGWARTS". Breaking the seal, Harry pulled out a rather long letter. It seemed to be bigger than the envelope could contain.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus

Headmaster: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumble
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardy, where you will be taught the proper usage in all matters of magic. Further below you will find a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1st September. Please await at platform 9 and 3/4. The train will be leaving at 11am.

Sincerely, Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress

Harry blinked. Witchcraft? Wizardry? Magic? What did any of it even mean? Now he knew it was a trick by Dudley or his friends. There aren't any witches or wizards, and the only magic Harry's seen was performed on the TV by professionals. He went back to look at the equipment but the door burst open, and he was greeted by the sight of uncle Vernon, who's face grew red when he noticed he had opened a letter.

"Who said you could open the op - " Vernon began before his beady eyes scanned the letters on the floor. Harry thought he might have been choking on his tongue at the sounds he was making, which was ranging from speechless to downright fuming. He was sure he could see steam coming out of his ears. "Give me that!" Vernon shouted, and grabbed the letter Harry was holding.

"What do you want a stupid letter for? It was only Dudley trying to trick me!" Harry shouted back, and he suddenly found himself unable to let go of the letter. Petunia and Dudley's heads craned around Vernon's back, watching the struggle. Petunia's face was pale and she looked like she took a bite of a lemon. Dudley was laughing, which made all 3 of his chins wobble.

"Give! Me! That!" Vernon shouted, and with a mighty tug pulled the letter from Harry's hands. "You won't be going! Forget everything you read!"

Harry was about to argue back before a stern female voice shouted, "Says who?" and everyone looked around for who it belonged to. "Down here, if you please." it said once more, and everyone's head turned down at the same time. Petunia let out a shriek and Vernon's eyes went wide. The letter he was holding was struggling out of his grip, and he let go of it like it had caught on fire. The letter suddenly curled and bent itself into the shape of a women's head, sporting a very thin and long pointed hat.

"You knew this day was coming. Harry Potter will be attending Hogwarts." it said in the same stern voice.

It took a few seconds for Vernon to come around. He shook his head, making sure this wasn't a nightmare. "Now listen here - " he began, shaking a finger in the letter's direction and wondering if he had finally gone mad.

"No, you listen! If Harry Potter isn't at Hogwarts on the 1st of September, I will come and personally bring him there myself!" and the stern voice suddenly turned into a commanding subtle threat. This had the effect the letter hoped to give, as Vernon snapped his mouth shut and turned a dark shade of purple. The face turned to Harry, who's eyes were equally as wide as Dudley was large, and who was unusually quiet.

"Don't worry, Mr. Potter. The headmaster should be able to see you within the hour." it said, a bit more friendly, before suddenly turning back into a regular letter.

Harry and the Dursleys stood there silent.

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"Ron! Ronald! Your Hogwarts letter has come!" Mrs. Weasley shouted up the stairs. "We can't afford all this," she whispered to herself with a frown, eyes darting at the letter. Ron's head poked itself from upstairs. "You'll have to use Charlie's old wand."

"Mum! No!" Ron began, but he was cut off.

"Ronald Billius Weasley! We can't afford you the best so you'll have to make do with what you've got!" she shouted. "Go and brush your teeth, we'll have go to Diagon Alley. And tell your brothers!"

Ron's face lit up. He loved going to Diagon Alley! He was already making a note of all the places he'd visit. First he'll go to Quality Quidditch Supplies and see the new Nimbus 2000 broom, it's supposed to be the fastest one yet! And then maybe Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, he's wanted to try the latest flavour - Dragon Tears - for ages! And then he'll definitely visit -

"Ouch! Watch where you're going with those clod-hopping feet!" shouted his younger sister Ginny, sprawled on the floor and rubbing her backside.

"Sorry Gin," Ron said grinning sheepishly. He offered a hand and helped her up. "Go and get ready, we're going to Diagon Alley!" and he sped past her and banged on Fred and George's door, which opened before he even knocked twice.

"And what does our annoying little brother want?" they both said in unison, making sure to keep the door as closed as possible while poking their heads through.

"Mum said to - " Ron began, craning his neck to look around the door. "What are you doing in there!"

"Should we tell him?" said George turning to his brother.

"What if he tells mum and dad?" said Fred.

"I won't tell, I swear!" Ron shouted. "Just lemme see."

The twins both eyed Ron suspiciously before pulling him inside their room and shutting the door quickly.

Ron was suddenly hit with the smell of liquorice and rotten eggs. Sitting in the middle of the room was a bubbling cauldron, an eery green smoke was billowing out of it, which was certainly the cause of the smell.

"This, dear brother of mine, is our secret potion." Fred said, wrapping an arm around Ron's shoulders.

"What is it?" he asked, pulling a face at the murky brown mixture inside.

"This is what will make Fred and myself rich." George said, and he dipped a finger into the mixture and tasted it. "Needs a little more moldy bread."

Fred let go of Ron and pulled a large wooden box from underneath his bed. Opening it, it was full of of moldy bread and rotten magimilk, some bird droppings, a bottle of their younger sister's tears, and a small vial full of a thick, blue liquid. Fred grabbed the moldy bread and pushed the box back under.

"Ginny's tears?" Ron said raising an eyebrow.

"You didn't think we did that to her pygmy doll just for fun did you?" George said, feigning insult before grinning.

"Ready George?" said Fred, holding a small piece of mouldy bread over the cauldron.

"Ready Fred!" said George, and he gave a salute.

Fred dropped the piece of bread into the potion. It started to bubble even more violently now, and the green smoke seeemed to get thicker and thicker before a massive explosion burst from the cauldron, covering all three Weasleys and the entire room in a thick, brown liquid.

"I did say we needed more magimilk, didn't I?" said George, wiping the potion from his eyes.

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Mr. Granger wasn't stupid. When a man enters your house freely, going on about magic and wizards and witches, you've got half a mind to call the police. That was his thought until Albus Dumbledore had, with a flick of a thin piece of wood, managed to turn the living room couch into a beautiful bed of azaleas. Mr. Granger, Mrs. Granger and Hermione all stood there flabbergasted with their mouths wide open.

"So ... you're saying magic is real, and my daughter is a witch, and that you want to train her to use magic?" Mr. Granger asked, suddenly finding his voice, although he never took his eyes off the azaleas. Dumbledore chuckled, clearly amused at their disbelief.

"Not train her. We are not building an army of witches and wizards, Mr. Granger, we have co-existed for a very long time." Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling with delight. He took particular pleasure of notifying muggles, when needed, that magic was real, and even insisted that he took this particular role of divulging information to the muggle parents of young witches and wizards. "Your daughter will be trained by one of the most prestigious of schools to better hone her talents, and she will see a world that you have only read about in fairy tales."

"Is it dangerous?" a quiet voice pipped up, and everyone turned to see Mrs. Granger standing there beside the doorway. She had been silent while her husband and the old man discussed Hermione's future, and they both forgot that she was even standing there.

Dumbledore was unusually quiet for a moment, and flicked the azaleas back into the dark green couch it was before and took a seat. All three Granger's eyes were wrapped in astonishment once again - it's not something you see every day, never the less twice.

"I'm afraid it is," Dumbledore said, almost whispered, to them, and his blue eyes seemed to lose their twinkle. "If a witch or wizard chooses to be bad or dangerous, then they will be bad or dangerous. But the Ministry of Magic - "

"The what?" asked Mr. Granger.

"Our government. We have a minister of magic, just like you have a prime minister, and all of our departments. I take great pleasure in knowing we have a Cauldron Regulating Department myself. You can never be too careful." said Dumbledore, and Mr. Granger wasn't sure if he was joking or being serious. "As I was saying, the Ministry of Magic's department of Aurors - wizards who capture dark wizards and protect us - are some of the very best I have ever met, and your daughter will be going to the safest place I personally know - and do excuse me for a moment, but I know a lot of places"

Mr. Granger had to take a seat, and slumped down into one of the cushiony armchairs behind him. It was a lot of information to take in, and to know his daughter was a witch. A witch! he mentally shouted at himself, and he suddenly pictured his daughter being chased by a group of people with pitchforks and torches. The quietest of the Grangers stepped into the room and stood beside her father, two large, brown eyes studying Dumbledore intently, who only smiled back in return.

"Dad, I'd like to go," Hermione said very quietly, and she turned to face Mr. Granger. "I always knew I was different and didn't belong to a regular school. And to learn magic, and new fascinating things, and to learn more about a different world..."

Mr. Granger smiled. He knew how curious his daughter could be, and how much she wanted to learn about everything. She was rather smart for being 11 years old, and sometimes she seemed much older than she actually was. He turned to face his wife, still standing beside the doorway listening intently. She noticed her husband looking at her and nodded, to which Mr. Granger let out a sigh.

"Okay. If that's what you want to do, honey." he said, kissing his daughter on the forehead. "Promise me, Mr. Dumbledore, that you will keep her safe."

Dumbledore nodded and stood up. He reached into his robe and drew out a letter, handing it to Mr. Granger. "I believe you will find all the information that you will need in there. I have another appointment now, so if you will excuse me, I am a tad bit late." he said shaking Mr. Granger's hand, although a little too hard. "Fascinating how you muggles excuse yourself, I must say. I'll let myself out." and he left the house without another word, although a resoundingly large crack! followed shortly after.

"Our daughter, a witch." said Mr. Granger to his wife, shaking his head.



(A/N: I hated this chapter. I'm nowhere near happy with it at all, and it is rather poorly written. And before I'm asked, the potion Fred and George making were just one of the many experiments I imagined they do to make some galleons on the side. :P)