HP: Wizard King

Darkness. That was the first thing he became aware of. Not the comforting kind that cradles you to sleep, but the suffocating kind that presses down on you like a heavy weight. There was a damp, musty smell, and something hard was digging into his back. His eyes fluttered open, disoriented, only to find himself in a confined space. The ceiling was low, and as he shifted slightly, his elbow knocked into a wooden beam.

Panic rose in his chest as he tried to move. His knees hit something hard and his head brushed against the rough ceiling. Where am I? He thought, confusion clouding his mind. The space was cramped—he could barely sit up. A dull pain throbbed in his ribs, as though he'd been curled up too long.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Wooden slats, a flickering of light slipping in through tiny cracks in the door in front of him… it all seemed oddly familiar. Too familiar.

As his fingers traced the rough blanket beneath him, a horrifying realization struck. He was in a cupboard. Not just any cupboard—it was the cupboard. Under the stairs.

"What the—" he began, but his voice caught in his throat. The words were unfamiliar, too soft, too young. His heart raced. He pressed his hands against his face and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the wild, untamed strands. He stopped cold when his fingers brushed against something on his forehead—a lightning-shaped scar.

"No," he whispered. "This can't be happening."

He scrambled in the confined space, pressing against the wooden door that served as the entrance to his prison. He couldn't stop the panic rising in his chest, couldn't make sense of any of it. This was impossible. He wasn't Harry Potter. He couldn't be.

His breath came out in ragged gasps. Memories of his old life were slipping through his fingers like sand, replaced by fragments of this new reality. The face he had seen so many times in books and movies—the one with messy black hair and a scar on his forehead—was now his face. He was living Harry Potter's life, trapped in a cupboard under the stairs just like the boy he had once read about.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. He had gone to sleep in his own bed, in his own world, and woken up here. Why me? Was this some kind of twisted dream? Or had he really been thrust into the body of Harry Potter, destined to live out the boy's life?

Before he could piece together the impossible, the door of the cupboard flew open with a loud bang, and he flinched.

"Get up, boy!" Vernon Dursley's booming voice filled the small space. The large, angry man glared down at him with a look of disgust. "You think you can just lie around all day? Breakfast won't cook itself!"

His heart raced as he stared at Vernon. The man was real—too real. Every detail matched exactly what he remembered from the books. This wasn't a dream. The reality of the situation hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Did you hear me?!" Vernon bellowed, his massive frame blocking out the light. "Get up, or there'll be no food for you today. Lazy good-for-nothing…"

Without thinking, he stumbled out of the cupboard, his body moving on autopilot. He could feel the stiffness in his limbs from being curled up in such a small space all night. As he stood, the full weight of his situation pressed down on him. He wasn't just in Harry Potter's world—he was living Harry's life.

Vernon muttered something under his breath and stomped off, leaving the cupboard door wide open. The boy—no, I'm not a boy, I'm not Harry—blinked, trying to make sense of it all. His hands trembled as he smoothed down the oversized, ragged clothes that hung off his small frame.

The day passed in a blur. He cooked breakfast for the Dursleys, cleaned the kitchen, and tried to stay out of sight. But his mind wasn't on the chores—it was consumed with questions. Why was he here? Was this some kind of test or punishment? Would he ever return to his old life?

By the time the sun had begun to set, he had more questions than answers. And no matter how many times he pinched himself, he didn't wake up from this nightmare.

That night, as he crawled back into the cupboard, he felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. The weight of Harry's life—and everything that would come with it—was crushing. He knew what lay ahead. Magic, Hogwarts, Voldemort. The terrifying battles and the immense burden that came with being the Boy Who Lived.

But there was something else he hadn't prepared for: the isolation. Harry's childhood wasn't just tragic—it was suffocating. Being in this cupboard, feeling the hunger gnaw at his stomach and the cold settle into his bones, made it all too real.

Just as his eyes began to droop, a sound jolted him awake. A low, crinkling noise. He sat up, glancing around the dark cupboard. His heart skipped a beat as he saw a letter slip through the small gap beneath the door. A letter? Here?

With trembling hands, he reached for the envelope, pulling it toward him in the dim light. The paper felt thick and heavy, the handwriting elegant and precise. His heart pounded as he read the address:

---

Mr. H. Potter,

The Cupboard Under the Stairs,

4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

---

He stared at the letter, his hands shaking. He had read this scene before, but now… it was his life.

Taking a deep breath, he ripped open the envelope and unfolded the parchment inside. His eyes darted across the familiar words, disbelief washing over him with every line.

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Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely, 

Minerva McGonagall, 

Deputy Headmistress

---

He read the letter once, then twice. Reality hit him like a bludger to the chest. It wasn't just Harry's body he was living in. It was his life. Magic, Hogwarts, Voldemort—it was all real.

Whatever had brought him here, whatever cosmic mistake or twist of fate had pulled his soul into this world, it wasn't going to let him off easy. He was Harry Potter now.

And whether he liked it or not, his journey as the Boy Who Lived had just begun.