Harry Potter was an unusual boy. He was so unusual, in fact, that his abusive step-parents forced him to live in a cupboard under the stairs out of embarrassment. Harry was so unusual, furthermore, that he did not mind. The cupboard was where other people weren't. If Harry were the sort of boy who liked things, and not the unusual boy that he was, he would have liked the cupboard.

One day, the cupboard was taken away from him.

It was a normal day, the same as any other, except for the mysterious supernatural events that culminated in the loss of Harry's cupboard, and also, Harry found out he was a wizard.

It started like a normal day, the same as any other.

"BOY [referring to Harry]!" screamed Uncle Vernon, his naturally ruddy complexion ruddying further as he prepared for his usual morning of bullying an 11 year-old boy.

Yes, you read correctly, dear reader, for our story begins on the birthday of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived (alas, the story of how he earned this name must wait till later), and now he was 11 years old (I must apologize, dear reader, for not stating explicitly that he was 10 years old until this special day, although special clues were laid out for the observant reader in the introductory paragraph, such as there being ten letters in "Harry Potte," etc.).

Returning to the scene which concerns us, we observe Uncle Vernon rapping violently on the door to Harry's cupboard, while incoherently shouting things like, "BOY!" and "No wizards in my house!"

Harry opened the door. Uncle Vernon was struck by his messy brown hair, skinny frame, glasses that were never fashionable covering striking green eyes, and a mysterious lightning-shaped scar that had been present on Harry's forehead ever since he had been dumped on the Dursley's (Harry's adoptive family and his relatives—his mother's sister was the wife of Uncle Vernon) doorstep by Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of all time (although the Dursleys most certainly did not know this, and neither did Harry, although I have chosen to share the information with you, lucky reader, as it is critical to later events). Had Uncle Vernon been a more reflective man, he would have wondered why he had stopped to take in the appearance of a boy he had seen every day and paid little attention for 11 years, but he barged right on (metaphorically—he did not enter Harry's cupboard) and shouted (at Harry—and forgive me, dear reader, for the abundance of parenthetical comments, but I assure you the surfeit of information that is presented herein would otherwise be overwhelming), "BOY! MAKE BREAFAST FOR YOUR AUNT, DUDDLEY [MY SON AND YOUR EVIL, FAT COUSIN], AND ME!"

Harry did what he did best and ignored Uncle Vernon. It wasn't like he hadn't been making breakfast for his evil, abusive family ever since he was tall enough to reach the stove by standing on a stool. He was starting to suspect that Uncle Vernon just liked yelling at Harry, and yelling in general. Harry sighed and headed for the kitchen.

It was his birthday, and although Harry detested birthdays, and days in general, today he had prepared himself a special treat. For years he had cooked the Dursleys breakfast, and for years he had secreted away excess grease and fat into spare cans from the enormous and entirely unreasonable quantities of fried bacon, fried eggs, and fried sausage the Dursleys consumed daily. Although he feared that if he simply allowed the Dursleys to consume a moderately excessive amount of fat and grease every day, their heart would only grow stronger to compensate, much like weightlifting, Harry hoped that the shock of an extraordinary quantity of fat and grease all at once would be enough to suffocate the heart of Uncle Vernon and perhaps at least put Aunt Petunia in a coma for several weeks, if not kill her outright as well. As for Dudley, Harry rather hoped that his death could wait until he had suffered severe mental and emotional agony from the premature death of his parents.

Today, Harry was going to kill the Dursleys.

Little did he know his life was about to be interrupted by magical owls.

Suddenly, Harry heard Uncle Vernon shout, "Ruddy owls! In daylight! Dropping letters down my chimney! Not on my watch! There'll be no bloody wizards in this house!"

"Wizard owls?" shrieked Aunt Petunia. "Don't let Harry read any of the letters!"

Harry grabbed one of the letters. The one advantage of being semi-starved while the rest of his family ate approximately a cow every day is that he moved more quickly than they did. He looked at the envelope (duh). It was addressed to him.

Harry had never been sent a letter before. He wasn't sure what to make of this.

"Don't…read…it…wizard…magic…," gasped Uncle Vernon, the overexcitement causing his heart to struggle and flicker. He gurgled on the floor with Aunt Petunia sobbing helplessly beside him as Harry tore the envelope open and read the letter.

Dear Mr. Harry James Sirius Black Snape Kills Dumbledore Potter,

You're a wizard! Congratulations! Be sure to attend Hogwarts, the Wizarding school, this fall. No information will be provided to you regarding tuition, transportation, or holy fuck what magic exists what holy fuck what do you mean I'm a wizard fuck.

Sincerely yours,

Hogwarts

Harry reflected on this information. Come to think of it, strange things had always seemed to happen to him whenever he was angry or scared. There had been that time where he had talked to that snake in that zoo, or somehow ended up on the top of a roof when those boys were chasing him, or when he had, in a fit of anger, temporarily stopped a boy's heart just by pointing at him.

"You're not a wizard, Harry!" Aunt Petunia shrieked (Uncle Vernon was slowly dying, and couldn't speak). "Magic isn't real!"

Just then, the door burst open, revealing an extremely large, hairy man wielding a pink umbrella.

"I'm Rubeus Hagrid!" the apparition bellowed to no one. Then it looked into the room and spotted Harry standing there with the letter in his hand, frozen with shock and fear. "Ah, you'd be Harry then. I'm Rubeus Hagrid, a half-man half-giant and I'm going to take you to Diagon Alley to get your books and things so you can go to Hogwarts."

Harry now knew that he hated Hagrid, and also that he was going to die. Aunt Petunia spluttered vacantly. Uncle Vernon gagged and lolled on the carpet (also shit Dudley is supposed to be in this scene shit).

Hagrid stared at Uncle Vernon. "What's wrong with him?" he said, nudging Harry, who flinched. "Don't worry, I'll sort him out." He waved his pink umbrella in a downward motion toward Uncle Vernon, silvery sparks shooting out of the tip. Uncle Vernon gave a great shuddering gasp, stiffened, and was still.

Aunt Petunia sobbed.

Hagrid scratched his chin.

Harry stared at the pink umbrella.

I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die

Hagrid shrugged and turned to Harry. "You'll be wanting to come with me, then. Also, yer a wizard, Harry."

"Magic isn't real!" Aunt Petunia sobbed. Somehow, Harry couldn't help but feel that her priorities were misplaced. Then Hagrid motioned, and Harry followed him numbly outside to Hagrid's motorcycle, knowing he had no choice.

Hagrid stopped in front of his motorcycle and looked embarrassed for a moment. "Ah, well, Harry, since it's yer birthday and all, and yer the Boy Who Lived who beat You Know Who just after he murdered your parents, well, I just thought I'd get you this." He reached inside of his massive coat and pulled out a mysterious white box, handing it to Harry with a nervous grin on his face. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. His heart rate was getting dangerously high, his vision was tunneling, and fear-sweat poured off him.

It was a cake.

Then they flew to Diagon Alley on Hagrid's flying motorcycle it was so cool holy shit I wish I could describe it to you