Book 1: Harry Potter and the Saiyan's Secret

The next morning at Number Four, Privet Drive, dawned with its usual grim monotony. Uncle Vernon barked about the newspaper being late; Aunt Petunia fretted over the "strange marks" a bird had left on her freshly cleaned windows; Dudley whined about not getting his fifth sausage fast enough.

Harry, however, wasn't paying attention to any of it. He sat at the kitchen table, staring down at his hands. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't forget the crackling power that had surged through them the day before. He could still feel it, like a dormant ember deep inside him, ready to ignite again.

"What're you gawping at?" snapped Dudley, his pudgy hand waving a fork laden with egg and sausage. "Planning to nick some of my breakfast?"

"No," Harry said absently, shaking his head.

Uncle Vernon's piggy eyes darted toward him. "You're acting strange, boy. Stranger than usual. What are you scheming?"

Harry forced himself to smile, though it came out more like a grimace. "Nothing, Uncle Vernon."

"Hmmph," Vernon grunted, clearly unconvinced. "Well, keep it that way. And if I hear one more word about freakishness, you'll regret it."

Freakishness. That word had followed Harry all his life, tossed at him like a curse by his relatives. But after what had happened in the garden yesterday, Harry couldn't help but wonder… was it really freakishness? Or was it something else?

---

The answer came sooner than Harry expected.

Later that afternoon, he was kneeling in the flowerbed, pulling weeds under Aunt Petunia's hawk-like gaze. His back ached, and dirt caked his hands, but he didn't dare complain. As he yanked out a particularly stubborn dandelion, a flicker of movement caught his eye.

An owl was swooping low over the neighborhood. Harry froze, watching as the bird glided down and dropped something right onto the front steps of Number Four.

"What on earth?" Petunia shrieked, clutching her apron like a lifeline. "Owls, in broad daylight? Disgusting creatures!"

Harry, however, couldn't tear his eyes away. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his hands on his oversized shirt, and hurried to the steps. Sure enough, there it was—a letter, thick and yellowish, addressed in emerald-green ink.

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

4, Privet Drive

Little Whinging, Surrey

Harry's heart thudded painfully. He'd never received a letter before—not one addressed to him, anyway. He picked it up carefully, as though it might disappear if he moved too quickly.

"What's that?" Aunt Petunia's sharp voice made him jump.

"N-nothing," Harry stammered, trying to shove the letter into his pocket.

But Petunia was faster. She snatched the envelope from his hands and gasped when she read the address. Her face turned ghostly pale, her bony hands trembling.

"Vernon!" she shrieked. "VERNON!"

Moments later, Uncle Vernon came lumbering in, his face red and sweaty from exertion. "What is it, Petunia? What's—"

He stopped dead when he saw the envelope. His tiny eyes bulged as though someone had slapped him.

"They've found him," Petunia whispered, her voice barely audible. "They've found him."

Vernon snatched the letter, glaring at it as though it had personally insulted him. Without a word, he ripped it in half and tossed the pieces into the kitchen bin.

"Hey!" Harry protested, stepping forward. "That was mine!"

"Don't you DARE talk back to me, boy!" Vernon roared, his face a blotchy shade of purple. "There'll be no letters for you! No funny business in this house, do you hear me?"

Harry clenched his fists, the warmth in his chest flaring again. The bin rattled faintly, but no one seemed to notice.

---

That night, Harry lay awake in his cupboard, the torn letter playing over and over in his mind. What could it have said? Who had sent it? And why were the Dursleys so terrified?

The next morning brought more questions than answers. When Harry stepped outside to fetch the milk, another letter was waiting on the doormat.

It was identical to the first.

This time, Harry tried to be sneaky. He tucked the envelope into his waistband and hurried back to his cupboard. But Vernon was already onto him. Before Harry could even open it, his uncle ripped it from his hands and shredded it into confetti.

The same thing happened the next day. And the day after that.

Letters came by owl, by hand, even down the chimney. The more Vernon tried to destroy them, the more relentless the delivery became.

By Friday, Vernon had boarded up every window and door in the house, muttering about "those blasted lunatics." But Harry wasn't deterred. If someone out there wanted to tell him something, then he was going to find a way to hear it.

---

It was on Sunday evening, just as the Dursleys were congratulating themselves on a letter-free day, that the situation took an unexpected turn.

The house trembled.

The Dursleys and Harry froze, staring at the walls as a low, rumbling vibration filled the air. It wasn't an earthquake—Harry knew what it was. That thrumming power in his chest had returned, stronger than ever. It pulsed in time with the shaking, building like a storm about to break.

Before anyone could react, the front door flew off its hinges, landing with a deafening crash. A hulking figure stood in the doorway, his wild hair and beard illuminated by the golden glow of sunset.

"Sorry 'bout the door," the man said, his voice deep and gravelly. He stepped inside, ducking slightly to avoid the low ceiling. "But I reckon it's time we had a proper chat."

Harry stared, wide-eyed, as the man's dark eyes landed on him.

"Harry Potter," the man said with a grin. "I've been wantin' to meet yeh for a long time."