Chapter 17 — Letter from Hogwarts
From the next day, I began what could only be described as my self-made crash course in magic.
Our living room had quietly turned into something between a classroom and a workshop. Mum tried to keep it tidy at first, but after a few weeks, she gave up. Books were everywhere — stacked on the side table, under the sofa, in neat piles (well, mostly neat) across the floor. Some of them smelled ancient, others looked brand new, still stiff from the shop at Flourish and Blotts.
I started with the books we had bought from Snape's list. After that I transitioed to the basic books. Hogwarts: A History, The Standard Book of Spells, Magical Theory, Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, and a few others that had caught my fancy. Every morning, after breakfast, I'd sit with Harry and Dudley and read aloud. Sometimes Harry would listen wide-eyed; other times, he'd drift off halfway through. Dudley was more hit-and-miss — he liked magical creatures, but History of Magic made him yawn so wide I feared he'd swallow a ghost.
Still, they both tried. And honestly, that made me proud.
After a few weeks, I began teaching them small things — how to sense magic, how to feel it, rather than just imagine it. It was like learning to breathe underwater at first. The air felt thick with something new, unseen but alive. Harry, perhaps because he already had magic, was quick to pick up the feeling. Dudley struggled, but he didn't give up, and that, I think, said something about him.
Once the theory was in place, I moved to the next step: practice.
The Standard Book of Spells — Miranda Goshawk's original version — became my bible. The pages were yellowed, but the ink had a kind of vitality, like it remembered being written by a real witch.
The first spell I tried was Lumos. Simple light, just a spark, really. But getting it right was harder than it looked.
Then came Wingardium Leviosa. Levitation. Another "basic" spell, but it made me question whether the word meant the same thing in magical terms. It took weeks before I could lift even a feather without it twitching like it was nervous.
By the time I could lift a spoon clean off the table, nearly a month had passed. It was slow, but steady. Each spell demanded focus — control, emotion, and rhythm. Magic, I found, didn't like impatience.
During those months, the house saw its fair share of accidents. Once, I accidentally reversed gravity in the kitchen. Mum's face when the toast started floating toward the ceiling was something I'll never forget.
"Arthur Dursley!" she cried, pointing her spatula like a wand. "Get those down this instant!"
"I'm trying!" I shouted back, trying to reverse the charm while Harry and Dudley giggled helplessly.
Brigid, our cat, wasn't amused. She meowed indignantly from where she floated near the cupboard.
Still, those were good days. Peaceful, even. The air in the house had grown lighter, laughter coming easily now. Even Dad, though still wary of anything "magicky," had stopped flinching. He'd mutter things like, "At least you're not blowing up the telly again," which I took as progress.
And so, like that, the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months.
I devoured book after book — magical theory, potion-making, herbology, care of magical creatures. The more I learned, the more I realised how vast this world was. Everything fascinated me.
One afternoon, while I was working on a simple charm to mend fabric, I realised something startling: a full year had almost passed.
I'd been ten when this all began. Now, I was on the edge of eleven — the age every witch and wizard waited for.
The day before my birthday, the house was buzzing. Mum tried to hide her nerves behind a cheerful tone, but she kept fussing over everything — cleaning the curtains, straightening my collar, reheating tea she'd already made.
Dad, on the other hand, was openly terrified. "If another owl crashes through our chimney, I'm boarding it up," he muttered.
Harry and Dudley were beside themselves with curiosity. They'd both sat me down at least five times that day, demanding to know what my letter would look like.
Harry asked, "Do you think it'll be from Hogwarts?"
"It should be," I said, trying to sound casual, though my stomach fluttered. "Tomorrow's the day."
He grinned. "Then we'll all wait by the window!"
"Just don't scare the owl off," I warned.
That night, I lay awake for hours. Eleven years old. It felt both monumental and absurd — I was still just me, the boy who read too much and accidentally made toast levitate. But deep down, I knew everything was about to change.
When morning came, sunlight spilled into my room, warm and soft. I went through my routine almost automatically — washing up, brushing, tidying my bed. The nervousness crept in only when I headed downstairs.
Everyone was already gathered at the table. Mum had made pancakes — a birthday treat. Harry and Dudley had hung a little paper banner that said Happy Birthday Arthur! in clumsy handwriting. Another banner saying Happy Birthday Harry! hung besinde it.
It was sweet. And awkward.
Mum kept glancing toward the window; Dad pretended to read his newspaper, though I saw the way his hands trembled slightly. Harry and Dudley whispered furiously to each other, eyes darting between me and the window every few seconds.
Finally, when everyone was halfway through breakfast, it happened.
Thud!
A sharp sound at the kitchen window — followed by a loud hoot!
An owl, magnificent and speckled brown, hovered outside, its wings beating against the glass. Clutched in its claws was an envelope sealed with red wax.
Mum gasped.
I stood up, walked to the window, and unlatched it carefully. The owl hopped onto the sill, tilting its head with a regal air.
"Good morning," I said softly.
It hooted again, extending its leg. I untied the letter, then remembered my manners — fetched a treat from the counter (Brigid's favourite cat snacks worked perfectly) and offered it. The owl pecked politely, then soared off into the morning sky.
I turned the envelope over in my hands. Heavy parchment. Emerald-green ink. The Hogwarts crest embossed in the centre — a lion, eagle, badger, and serpent surrounding a bold H.
My heart thudded.
I slit it open carefully, almost reverently, and unfolded the letter inside.
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. Arthur Dursley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl no later than 31 July.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress
The second page was the supply list — robes, books, wand, cauldron, pewter size two, phials, telescope, scales, and of course, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
I just stared at it for a long time, letting the words sink in. It was official. Hogwarts.
Behind me, the room was utterly silent.
Finally, Mum whispered, "So… it's real. You're really going."
I turned to look at her. Her eyes were glistening, pride and worry all tangled together. "It seems so," I said quietly.
Dad cleared his throat. "Well. I suppose that settles it. My son — a wizard."
He said the word like it was both a confession and a triumph.
Harry bounced up and down in his seat. "Does that mean I'll get one too? When I'm eleven?"
"Of course you will," I said, smiling. "You're a Potter. It's in your blood."
He grinned so widely I thought his face might split. Dudley, surprisingly, didn't look jealous — just thoughtful.
"Does that mean," he said slowly, "we'll have to buy… wizard uniforms?"
That made everyone laugh.
The tension broke, just like that. Mum wiped her eyes and started fussing again. "We'll need to go shopping soon — what do we even buy for school like that? Oh, heavens, I'll need a list…"
"You already have one," I said, waving the parchment.
Dad chuckled, shaking his head. "You'd better frame that thing. First Dursley ever to go to Hogwarts."
The words sank deep into me. First Dursley ever.
I looked down at the letter again, feeling the weight of it — not just paper, but history, expectation, and magic. The seal gleamed faintly in the morning light, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw it shimmer — as if the school itself were watching, waiting.
End of Chapter 17 — Letter from Hogwarts