The Girl Who Stole the Stone

The first time Ophelia saw the sky shimmer was on Dudley’s birthday, the day her magic first betrayed her. Dudley’s birthday was never a good time for her. Not because he was spoiled and unbearable, or because Petunia and Vernon used it as an excuse to remind her and Harry how deeply unwanted they were. But because it brought her back to the darkness inside her. The part that she couldn’t explain. The part that didn’t feel human.

The smallest bedroom in Number Four, Privet Drive, was just big enough for two narrow beds, a shared dresser with a missing drawer, and a window that stuck every time you tried to open it. One side of the room was cluttered with books about airplanes and broken action figures; the other was neater, arranged with quiet, deliberate care—except for the bits of string Ophelia tied to the bedposts, charms she couldn’t explain even to herself.

Harry lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “You think Dudley’ll make you serve cake this year?”

“He likes it when I trip in front of people,” Ophelia muttered from her bed. “Makes him feel taller.”

Harry giggled. Then a beat of silence washed between them.

“I had that dream again,” she whispered. “The one with the red light and—”

From downstairs, a loud voice boomed.

“I want twenty presents! Twenty! Not ten, not fifteen—twenty!”

Petunia’s sharp reply came quickly. “Dudley, you’re being ridiculous. You already have more than enough.”

“But it’s my birthday! I deserve more than enough!”

Harry and Ophelia exchanged tired looks. Ophelia hugged her knees. “I wish things could be different.”

This year, the Dursleys had begrudgingly taken both her and Harry to the zoo. Not out of generosity. Mrs. Figg, the nosy neighbor who normally watched them, had slipped on one of her seventeen cats and broken her leg.

At first, Ophelia had enjoyed it. The light wind, the smell of popcorn, even Dudley whining about his camera batteries—until they reached the reptile house.

She felt it before she saw it. An strange feeling up her spine. A whisper, low, serpentine, wrong, tickled her ear as she passed a dark glass habitat. She froze. Her eyes locked on a massive Burmese python slithering along the glass. It looked up, straight at her. Then everything happened at once.

The glass vanished.

The crowd screamed. A woman fainted. And there, in the middle of the exhibit, Dudley Dursley was trapped inside, pounding on the glass that hadn’t been there seconds before.

Ophelia didn’t scream. She turned and found Harry, standing too still, blinking as if waking from a dream.

“What did you do?” she hissed, dragging him aside.

“I—I didn’t,” he stammered. But she saw it in his eyes. He had. Just like she had done things. Unexplainable things.

That night, the Dursleys roared all the way home. Uncle Vernon nearly crashed the car, swearing about abnormality and no more nonsense. Aunt Petunia's face was pale and tight, as if she'd swallowed her tongue. They barely looked at the children. As if eye contact alone might awaken something unnatural.

For weeks afterward, the house remained unusually quiet. No shouting, no punishments, just a heavy silence. It made Ophelia even more uneasy. Their birthday passing once again without anyone noticing.

She spent most of her time locked their bedroom studying maths. Her teacher had told her she was talented in maths and that she should attend the private school Dudley goes to. However, the Dursleys would never allow it. Harry sat in the other corner of the room playing with sad figurines.

Eventually Ophelia and Harry made their way down to the kitchen to start their daily chores. Vernon was sitting on loveseat in the middle of the living room, sipping down a large mug of coffee. “Go fetch the mail boy, it is Tuesday, or are you too stupid to remember.”

Ophelia’s hand melded into a fist. The plates in the kitchen lightly rumbling but went unoticed by Petunia cooking breakfast.

Harry ignored him. That’s what he always does. Never one to spark up a fight like herself.

Harry strolled back in and carefully handed Vernon the majority of the mail. But Ophelia caught a glimpse of something. He carefully smuggled two letters behind his back. Then tried to make his way upstairs.

Where do you think you’re going?” Vernon barked, setting his mug down with a loud clink.

Harry froze. Ophelia saw the edge of an envelope peeking out from behind his back. Her breath caught.

“Just—just going to the loo,” Harry muttered.

“Bring that here.” Vernon was on his feet now, eyes narrowing as he marched forward.

Harry backed away. “It’s nothing. Just a letter.”

Ophelia stepped in front of him. “It’s addressed to us, isn’t it?”

Vernon reached between them and snatched the envelope from Harry’s hand. He turned it over, eyes bulging. His face turned the color of overcooked ham.

“Who the hell is sending you post?” he snapped.

Petunia appeared in the doorway, spatula in hand. “Vernon?”

But he wasn’t listening. He ripped the envelope open with shaking fingers and skimmed it. Then he looked at Harry. Then at Ophelia.

Ophelia glanced at the writing but couldn’t decipher what it said.

He slowly walked over to the fireplace and tossed the letter into the flames.

Ophelia lunged.

“No!”

Harry grabbed her arm just in time.

“Another one of your freaky episodes?” Vernon sneered. “You two think you’re clever, do you? Think you can sneak post behind our backs?”

“I saw my name,” Ophelia snapped. “It had my name on it.”

Vernon got close. “You’ll get nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing but chores and discipline until you learn some gratitude.”

She felt it again. The heat in her chest, the way her vision blurred around the edges. Behind her, the cupboard doors rattled. A single plate cracked down the middle.

“Enough,” Harry hissed quietly, pulling her back. “It’s not worth it. He’ll only get worse.”

Vernon pointed toward the stairs. “Both of you upstairs! Now!”

They went. But as Ophelia climbed, her hand still clenched at her side, she knew something was changing.

That letter had found her.

And it would find her again.

After the letter debacle, Vernon grew paranoid. It started with the mail slot — nailed shut with two-inch screws and a strip of old carpet. Then came the tape, he stretched it tightly across every doorframe and window crack, as if a letter might slither through like a snake. He unplugged the telephone. Disconnected the television. Even nailed shut the chimney flap.

Still, the letters came. Folded into the eggshells at breakfast, slipped through the vents, dropped down the fireplace like snow. Vernon burned them all, red-faced and muttering, his eyes twitching toward every rustle of paper. He stayed home from work to guard the front door, pacing in the hallway. By the third day, the whole house smelled of scorched parchment.

By the end of the week, Vernon’s mustache twitched with every creak of the floorboards. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. When a dozen identical letters slipped through the seams of the dishwasher, he snapped. Without warning, he bundled them all into the car. No bags, he just growled, “We’re going somewhere they can’t find us.” Rain battered the windshield as they drove for hours. No clear destination in sight. Aunt Petunia clutched her handbag, equally clueless about their travels. Dudley wailed that he’d forgotten his television. Ophelia stared out the window, watching the landscape smear into green and gray.

“This is mad,” Harry whispered to her in the back seat. “Completely mental.”

Ophelia didn’t answer. Her stomach churned. Every mile they drove away from the letters, made her more and more interested in what they said. Although, she had an aching feeling about it.

Eventually, they made a stop in the countryside. The moment Ophelia stepped from the car, she was nearly blown over by the howling wind. The Dursley’s rushed inside, in search of food and shelter from the threatening storm.

Harry had wandered off to explore the building, his footsteps already echoing down the old path. Ophelia lingered behind, letting the wind brush against her cheeks. She closed her eyes and breathed in the cool, misty air — the first breath all day that hadn’t felt heavy.

A flicker of motion caught her eye. She turned just in time to see a creature glide past — its wings brushed with brown and gold, feathers glinting in the gray light. It circled once, then swooped low and landed gracefully on the fence just a few feet away.

A Eurasian owl.

Its eyes were wide and intelligent, glowing with golden and amber hues. Tucked in its beak was a piece of tightly rolled parchment, sealed in wax.

Ophelia’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t dare move, afraid of scaring it off — or worse, drawing the attention of the Dursleys.

The owl tilted its head, gave a soft hoot, and dropped the letter gently at her feet. Then, without a sound, it lifted off into the sky and vanished behind the clouds.

Ophelia glanced quickly over her shoulder. No one had seen. The Dursleys were still inside, unaware. Carefully, she knelt and picked up the letter.

It was smooth and slightly warm, the wax seal bright red. Her hands trembled as she turned it over and read the address:

Miss E. Potter

The Smallest Bedroom

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

Ignoring how specific the address was, Ophelia carefully ripped it open.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss E. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Term begins 1 September. A list of required books and equipment is enclosed. Travel instructions will be provided by your escort.

We look forward to your arrival.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Ophelia’s heart skipped a beat. She was shaken, yet not surprised. Her trembling hands resembled something of fear. Fear of what she could be capable of if she went to this school. Fear of herself.

No—this was madness. Magic wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It had to be some elaborate joke or mistake.

With sudden defiance, she gripped the edge of the parchment and tore it in half. Then again. And again. Until nearly a dozen scraps fluttered in her hands. She let them go, one by one, and watched as the wind carried the pieces into the gray sky.

After arguing with the innkeepers for nearly twenty minutes, the Dursleys were finally put up in a cranky old shack on the edge of town, barely a structure at all. It leaned against the sea cliffs as though the wind itself might knock it over. The roof leaked. The floor creaked. A single rusted stove sat cold in the corner.

That night, a storm rolled in from the sea. Rain lashed the windows. Thunder rattled the door on its hinges. Ophelia sat huddled on the floor beside Harry, wrapped in the same musty blanket. Her eyes were fixed on the crackling fire Vernon had barely managed to light.

Dudley snored loudly in the corner, curled up on the couch like a spoiled cat. Petunia kept glancing at the door as though expecting someone to break it down.

Ophelia hadn’t told Harry about the owl, or the letter, or how she’d torn it to pieces.

Midnight approached.

And just as the clock ticked its final stroke—BOOM.

A heavy fist pounded the door. Dust fell from the ceiling. Then, again—BOOM. BOOM.

The Dursleys jumped.

“What the devil!” Vernon started, standing up with a flashlight, his voice shaking.

The door rattled under the force of something, or someone, on the other side.

Then, with one final crack and a shower of splinters, the door was knocked off its hinges.

A giant stood in the doorway, water dripping from his tangled beard and coat, dark eyes squinting into the room.

“Sorry ‘bout the door,” he grunted, stepping over it.

He looked directly at Harry and Ophelia.

“Should’ve come sooner,” the stranger said. “But better late than never. Harry Potter and Euphemia Potter.”