Chapter 1

It was the middle of the night, and Harry Potter was in a foul mood. An ordinary observer would find this difficult to understand. Harry should have been quite happy. He was sitting in a comfortable (but crowded) bedroom. That bedroom was in an expensive and well-appointed house, which was itself located on Privet Drive, the most prominent street in a subdivision that was, in a wealthy and respectable sort of way, extremely fashionable.

Moreover, it was summer, and Harry Potter was fourteen, which meant that he was currently on vacation from school. But as I said, Harry was quite miserable, the comforts of Number 4 Privet Drive aside—and as I said, an ordinary observer could never understand why. To explain this state of affairs to an ordinary observer, one might say that Harry wanted desperately to go to the Quidditch World Cup, but his adoptive parents the Dursleys would not let him.

The ordinary observer would then inquire as to the nature of this “quidditch,” to which one would respond that it was a game played on broomstick. After the laughter subsided, one would have to explain that Harry Potter—like millions of people around the world—was a wizard; and he went to wizarding school, which he loved; and his adoptive parents hated him because he was different; and they had forbidden him to go watch this “quidditch” because they didn’t hold with any of that queerness.

An ordinary observer would kindly suggest that one ought to get one’s head examined, which is perhaps the reason that nobody tells ordinary observers anything.

Be that as it may, Harry Potter was in a foul mood, for exactly the reason just described. But he received two packages that evening, either one of which would have sufficed to change his mood considerably. Together, they changed not just his mood, but his entire year—perhaps more.

The first was not a surprise. It was an owl from the Weasleys (that is, the family of Harry’s closest friend in the world, Ron Weasley). The Weasley’s aged and exhausted owl burst through the ajar window of Harry’s bedroom and collapsed on the carpeted floor. An envelope slid from its claws. Harry, after scooping up the poor creature (still cold from the night’s chill) and putting it at the foot of his bed to rest, retrieved the envelope.

Harry had been expecting a letter ever since he had, about a week ago, written Ron to say thanks for inviting him to the World Cup, but the Dursleys wouldn’t let him go. He had expected Ron’s condolences and a promise to tell him all about it after. Instead, he read this:

There is, it is often observed, a process of processing joy that is the exact reverse of the stages of grief. Instead of denial, there is hopeful disbelief: can it possibly be true? Instead of anger, beneficence. Instead of bargaining, caution: I must not mess this up. Instead of depression, euphoria. And then, as all of this subsides, a return to something approximating one’s normal mood.

Harry made it through disbelief and was most of the way past beneficence when his ecstatic reverie was interrupted by the second package. This one was entirely unexpected.

A large owl blacker than the night appeared outside Harry’s window, rapped its beak against the glass a single time, and squeezed itself through the gap. Before Harry could react, it dropped a heavy parcel on the floor (with a thud that made Harry wince) and left the way it had come.

Harry got up from his bed gingerly, both to avoid making more noise and to avoid disturbing the Weasleys’ owl, which had fallen asleep on his bed. Sitting on the floor of his bedroom, he examined the package. It was wrapped in brown paper. It looked and felt like a textbook. But the note attached was far too cryptic for school supplies:

Harry was quite confused. He would later surmise, on reflection, that the owl had not quite justified Professor G’s faith in its abilities. Instead of flying to the office of Professor S, it had read “For: Private” as “Four Privet” and delivered the package to that address. But that understanding would come later. For the moment, he was merely confused.

When Harry opened the package, he saw what he expected to see: a spellbook. For the ordinary observer (who, as I mentioned previously, is often a bit of a prat but who is nevertheless essential in stories of this nature), a spellbook looks rather like a textbook. Spellbooks are sized as reference materials, not pleasure reading. They have hard covers or thick leather ones. They are always quite heavy.

This one was no exception. It was perhaps nine inches by twelve inches. Its cover was unmarked black leather. The pages were of parchment, not wood paper. There dangled, from the middle of the book, the tip of one of those ribbon bookmarks that exist for the snooty folks who pretend they are too refined to dogear pages.

Harry grabbed the book with his bare hands. Too late, he remembered the postscript of the mysterious Professor G: touch only with gloves. When his skin touched the leather of the book, three things happened at the exact same instant.

First, Harry’s penis became erect. Painfully erect. The kind of erection one has when one is about to satisfy, for the first time, a long-felt desire. The sort of erection that is impossible to disguise, however baggy one’s trousers. The sort that is a deep purplish-red and a half-inch longer and thicker than normal. The sort that physicians have in mind when they say to go to the hospital if it lasts longer than four hours.

I should say that Harry was perhaps a bit above average for his age. His penis might have been, under ordinary circumstances, five inches long and the same around. His jeans could accommodate that snugly but comfortably. But now they were tight, uncomfortably so, around his intense erection.

Second, the book snapped open sharply, falling from his hands to the carpeted floor with a muted thud. The red ribbon bookmark, which before had dangled limply, arched above the spread pages like a serpent.

Third, Harry became aware of another presence inside his head. It felt much the same as when one realizes, without actually seeing or hearing another person, that one is not alone in a large, quiet room. But this awareness was faint and undefined, and Harry had more immediate things to think about.