The Owlery at Hogwarts Castle was especially lively that day.
At least several hundred owls crowded the windows, packages tied to their talons, before flapping straight toward the Great Hall.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron was biting into a piece of toast when he suddenly heard a burst of wingbeats above his head.
He looked up and saw a grey-brown owl drop a flat package precisely in front of him before flying off without looking back.
“What’s this?” Ron froze.
Beside him, Harry also received a package.
Three owls landed in front of them almost at the same time, piling the parcels into a small mountain.
“Merlin’s beard,” Seamus said beside them, his eyes wide.
“Harry, what did you get?”
Before Harry could answer, Hermione had already opened her own.
She pulled a book from the kraft-paper wrapping.
On the cover was a little boy wearing round glasses, with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
“Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One,” she read aloud.
“I asked my parents to buy a few copies from the Muggle world.
This way, we can finally see what’s actually in the book.”
“What?
This is that book?”
“Quick, let me see!”
Ron hurriedly tore open his own package.
Sure enough, it was the same book.
“My God… this is written… it’s written like it knows everything,” he said in shock after opening it.
Harry sat there, holding his copy, but he didn’t open it right away.
He stared at the boy on the cover, the boy who looked almost exactly like him, and a feeling he couldn’t quite describe rose in his chest.
That scar on the forehead, those round glasses, those green eyes…
It was clearly him.
“Harry, hurry up and read it!” Ron nudged him with his elbow.
“This book is about you!”
Harry took a deep breath and opened to the first page.
[Mr.
and Mrs.
Dursley, of Number Four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal…]
He continued reading.
The Dursleys, the cupboard under the stairs, Dudley’s old clothes, those hungry nights, those days when he was locked in his room…
“This is impossible…” Harry whispered.
“Everything written here is right.”
“Everything?” Hermione abruptly raised her head.
“You mean what’s written in this book is exactly the same as what you experienced?”
Harry nodded, but his eyes never left the pages.
How did the author of this book know all this?
“Wait,” Ron said, putting down the book, his expression turning serious.
“Harry, if what you’re saying is true, then who exactly is this Allen Wayne?
How does he know what happened to you?”
“I don’t know.” Harry shook his head.
“I’ve never heard that name before.”
“Maybe he’s a wizard who can read memories?” Seamus guessed.
“Read memories?” Hermione frowned.
“That’s unlikely.
If there really were someone who could read memories like that, the Ministry would’ve hired him as a consultant ages ago.”
“Then how do you explain this book?” Ron asked back.
Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Just then, Dean Thomas, who was sitting not far away, suddenly spoke.
“Harry, the book says you lived in a cupboard under the stairs when you were little… is that true?”
The atmosphere at the table instantly became delicate.
Everyone’s eyes turned toward Harry.
Harry felt his cheeks grow warm.
He didn’t like talking about these things, especially not in front of so many people.
“…Yes,” he finally admitted.
A series of low gasps sounded around the table.
“Merlin…” Seamus whispered.
“I thought the papers were exaggerating.”
“That’s awful,” said a fifth-year girl, her eyes turning red.
“You’re the hero who defeated You-Know-Who.
How could they treat you like that?”
“Hero?” Harry gave a bitter little smile.
“In their eyes, I was just a freak.”
“You’re not a freak,” Hermione said seriously.
“You’re a wizard.
And a very remarkable one.”
Harry looked up and saw nothing but sincerity in Hermione’s brown eyes.
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, lowering his head and wiping at his eyes.
“But speaking of which,” Ron said, dragging the topic back, “this book also mentions Malfoy.”
“Malfoy?” Neville’s eyes widened.
“What does it say about him?”
“Read it yourself.”
Ron turned to a certain page and read aloud:
[“You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.
I can help you there.”]
“That’s him all right,” Seamus said.
A ripple of snickering passed along the table.
“Typical Malfoy,” Fred said, leaning over from the side.
“His dad Lucius walks around the same way, nose in the air.”
Harry remembered his first meeting with Malfoy on the train, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“The book’s right,” he said.
“I definitely didn’t want to be friends with him.”
“Wise choice,” Ron said.
“If you’d made friends with him, his dad probably would’ve had you sent to Slytherin by now.”
“Hey, what’s wrong with Slytherin?”
A voice came from nearby.
Everyone turned and saw Malfoy standing not far away, also holding a copy of [Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One].
His face was as dark as the sky before a storm.
“Malfoy,” Ron said provocatively.
“You bought the book too?”
“My father sent it to me,” Malfoy said coldly.
“He said it’s caused quite a stir in the wizarding world.”
“So have you read it?” Fred asked.
Malfoy’s expression stiffened.
Of course he had read it.
And after reading it, he had almost thrown the book into the fireplace in rage.
The book portrayed him as an arrogant, overbearing pure-blood supremacist, a spoiled young bully throwing his weight around at school.
Although… that did resemble his usual behaviour a little.
But having someone write it down and show it to everyone was another matter entirely.
“This book is complete nonsense,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth.
“The author is nothing but a fraud.”
“Really?” Harry looked up at Malfoy.
“Then the part where you tried to talk to me on the train and got angry after I rejected you—is that nonsense too?”
Malfoy’s face flushed scarlet.
The surrounding students let out suppressed laughter.
“You…” Malfoy pointed at Harry, but couldn’t get the words out.
“What about me?” Harry asked curiously.
Malfoy glared at him fiercely, then turned and walked away.
“Looks like everything in the book is true,” George said with a grin.
“Malfoy really is petty.”
“Still, it’s interesting that his father actually sent him the book,” Fred said thoughtfully.
“Lucius Malfoy isn’t the sort of person who’d let his son shame himself.”
“Impossible,” Ron said, shaking his head.
“This book has gone mad in the wizarding world.
How could he not have read it?”
“Then why send it to Draco?” Seamus asked.
“Maybe…” Harry thought for a moment.
“Maybe he wants Draco to learn how to be a normal student?”
The table erupted into laughter.
Meanwhile, over at the Slytherin table, the atmosphere was nowhere near as relaxed.
Malfoy sat in his seat, his face livid.
In front of him lay Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One.
The densely packed words on the pages looked to him like vicious insults.
“Draco, is what the book says true?” a Slytherin student beside him leaned over and asked.
“Shut up,” Malfoy said coldly.
“He really did talk to Potter on the train…” Goyle whispered.
“I said shut up!”
Goyle wisely closed his mouth.
Sitting opposite him, Pansy picked up the book, flipped through a few pages, and frowned.
“This book makes you sound… well, not very flattering.”
“So what?” Malfoy snapped.
“The whole book is nonsense.”
Malfoy leaned back in his chair, a nameless fire burning in his chest.
He hated the book.
He hated the author called Allen Wayne.
And he hated Harry Potter even more.
Why did that scarhead get to be the protagonist of the book?
Why did he, Draco Malfoy, have to be some villain?
His father was right.
This book had to be manipulated by someone behind the scenes.
And that someone was very likely Dumbledore.
…
Inside the Headmaster’s office, the fire in the hearth crackled.
Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair, holding a steaming cup of lemon tea, his gaze calmly fixed on the dusk outside the window.
Snape stood beside the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest.
“You remember that only the first half of the book has been released?” Dumbledore said.
“I’ve heard the second half will be published very soon.”
A mocking smile appeared at the corner of Snape’s mouth.
“The second half?” he sneered.
“The first half has already covered Potter’s experiences since entering school.
What else can the second half possibly write about?
Can the author predict the future now?”
Dumbledore fell silent.
A faint, unreadable light flickered in those blue eyes.
“You don’t actually believe that book can predict the future, do you?” Snape asked.
“I’m not certain,” Dumbledore said.
“But I do not rule out any possibility.”
“Absurd,” Snape scoffed.
“How could a book possibly predict the future?
It defies logic.”
“Magic itself defies logic, Severus,” Dumbledore said calmly.
Snape opened his mouth, but found no rebuttal.
“So I believe the best method is to wait,” Dumbledore said.
“Once the second half is published, we’ll naturally know the answer.”
“And if the second half truly can predict the future?”
“Then we will have an author who can predict the future.” Dumbledore smiled faintly.
“Would that not be a good thing?”
Snape stared at him for a long while before finally turning and leaving the Headmaster’s office.
After the door closed, the smile on Dumbledore’s face slowly disappeared.
He looked out at the gradually darkening sky and murmured softly,
“Predict the future…”