Chapter Text
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall, lowering herself back onto the low garden wall with a stiff motion. "Really, Albus, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him or our world. He'll be famous… a legend. I wouldn't be surprised if today was celebrated as Harry Potter Day in years to come. Books will be written about him. Every child in our world will know his name."
She paused, her voice dropping to a near whisper, eyes narrowing with something between worry and wry amusement.
"And when he's of age, or even before, every girl in the wizarding world will want him. Some will want more than just his autograph. How on earth do you propose to explain that in a letter?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half moon spectacles, calm as ever.
"My dear Minerva," he said gently, "I have no intention of explaining the… finer details of our society's customs in a letter. Those conversations will come in person, when the time is right." He paused, gazing out over the dark village below. "And I believe the boy will be better served without that kind of attention too early in his life. Fame is a heavy enough burden."
McGonagall huffed, folding her arms. "You’re leaving him with Muggles who’ll treat him like he’s nothing. And when he finally arrives here, he’ll have no idea what awaits him."
"Precisely," Dumbledore replied softly. "Let him discover it gradually. The wizarding world can be… overwhelming for the unprepared."
Twelve years had passed, and Dumbledore had never come to explain the wizarding world to Harry, as he had once promised Minerva. Harry was growing older, now on the cusp of fourteen, and Aunt Petunia had taken to nagging him about “letting off steam,” muttering that she and Vernon didn’t want “some angry, hormonal teenager” sulking around the house—especially not the son of those people.
Once the Dursleys realized he was spending long hours wandering the neighbourhood to escape them, Vernon laid down the law with his fists. Harry learned quickly: stay far away, out of sight, so the neighbours wouldn’t notice anything “freakish” and start asking questions. So he took the bus, or walked, all the way to the city centre, where no one knew him.
Curiously, the bus drivers always seemed to forget to charge him. He rode for free more often than not. Strange things still happened around Harry Potter, and sometimes they were kind.
Those walks ate up most of the day. By the time he turned for home, night had fallen. The route back took him through the rougher part of town, past drug dealers leaning against lampposts, pimps in cheap suits, their ladies in short skirts and heavy makeup, and the neon-lit doors of brothels and swing clubs. Even at twelve, Harry knew he didn’t like the dealers, their sharp eyes, the way they dressed, the danger that clung to them like smoke. But the women… and the couples slipping inside those clubs… they caught his attention in a way he couldn’t explain. He didn’t stare openly, but he looked. Those women were hot.
As always, strange things happened around Harry Potter.
Two incidents in particular marked him.
The first happened on a warm evening when he was trailing a few steps behind a beautiful young woman, no more than twenty, who wore a tight black skirt that hugged a plump, perfect arse. Harry watched the fabric strain with every step and thought, almost innocently:
"How is that skirt not ripping? It looks ready to burst."
The thought had barely finished when he heard it, a sharp, tearing sound. The skirt split clean down the back seam, ripping so violently that the woman froze in shock. She bent instinctively to grab the ruined fabric, and in that moment Harry was gifted a perfect, unobstructed view: the full curve of her bare arse, smooth and round, and beneath it her pussy, shaved clean, lips plump and slightly parted, everything he had only glimpsed in Dudley’s hidden magazines made suddenly, breathtakingly real.
His heart hammered. Blood rushed south so fast he felt dizzy. The woman straightened, face flaming as she realized someone had seen everything, but Harry couldn’t hide the stupid, giddy grin that spread across his face. Nothing Vernon shouted that night, nothing, could touch the high of that moment. He thought it was the best day of his life.
Little did he know there would be more.
At twelve (and then thirteen), he wasn’t actively hunting for women, but the memory of that ripped skirt lingered. It became a quiet, private game: when he saw a woman in tight clothing, the thought slipped in unbidden, "I’d love to see that rip open too." And sometimes, impossibly, it did.
At the age of thirteen, another incident happened.
Harry was waiting for the bus home, leaning against the shelter wall, when his eyes drifted across the street. A woman in her mid twenties stood there, waiting to cross. She wore a loose, short summer dress, light fabric, fluttering slightly in the breeze, hem barely reaching mid thigh. She held a stack of files pressed against her chest with both arms, the posture making the dress pull tight across her hips.
Harry’s gaze lingered. Imagine what would happen if a gust of wind hit that dress right now…
As if the thought had summoned it, a sudden breeze swept through the street. The woman’s dress lifted, first the hem, then higher, flipping up completely to her waist. For a few heart-stopping seconds, everything was exposed: smooth thighs, the curve of her arse and, Harry’s breath caught, she wasn’t wearing panties. Her pussy was bare, lips neat and flushed, a faint glisten catching the light as the wind held the fabric up.
It felt like seeing someone at the beach in a bikini… except this was better. Real. Unexpected. Exciting in a way that made his stomach flip and his cock twitch hard in his trousers.
The wind died as quickly as it had come. The dress fell back into place. The woman adjusted the files, oblivious or pretending to be, and crossed the street without looking back.
Harry stood frozen, pulse racing. Later that night, lying in the cupboard, he replayed it over and over. Am I just lucky… or do women really not wear panties that much?
By now, all the strange occurrences around Harry involved women and their clothes. He’d had a few more since the skirt rip: sudden gusts lifting dresses, buttons popping on tight blouses, seams giving way on jeans. Always brief, always leaving him with a perfect, burning image.
There had been other odd things too, the time Dudley and his gang chased him and he somehow ended up on the school roof, or the zoo visit when he was eleven and the glass vanished after he blinked angrily at the snake. But those felt different.
Then, about a year after the zoo, something new started with his vision.
One month before his fourteenth birthday, Harry was walking through town again when he spotted a woman in tight gym leggings, black, shiny, stretched so thin they looked painted on.
He muttered to himself, a habit he’d picked up from too much time alone: "Wow, those leggings are almost see through. Does she even know?"
She bent to pick up a dropped water bottle, the fabric pulling tighter across her arse. Harry thought, It’s going to rip again, just like that skirt.
He blinked, waiting for the tear, the scream, the exposure.
But nothing ripped.
When he opened his eyes fully, the leggings were simply… gone.
The woman was still bent over, but now there was nothing between his eyes and her bare skin smooth, fair, toned. Her pussy was completely hairless, lips neat and pink, the inner folds just visible as she shifted her weight. The sight hit him like a punch: clean, inviting, the kind of perfection he’d started to crave in his private fantasies.
He stared, cock hardening instantly in his trousers, for a few stunned seconds before blinking rapidly, half-convinced he was losing his mind.
The leggings reappeared as suddenly as they’d vanished. The woman straightened, grabbed her bottle, and walked on completely unaware.
Harry stood there, heart pounding, feeling stupid and exhilarated at once. What would someone think if they saw me blinking like an idiot? Luckily, no one was looking.
This was different from the others. When clothes ripped or wind lifted dresses, people noticed gasps, laughter, embarrassment. But this… only he had seen. No one else glanced twice at the woman.
At thirteen, Harry had already discovered the private joy of touching himself, and these incidents gave him endless material. That smooth, bare pussy became his favorite image for weeks.
"Two whole years," he thought later, counting back to the first ripped skirt. Plenty more little accidents had happened gusts, rips, flashes, but none quite matched the intensity of the firsts… or that invisible moment with the leggings.
Now Harry was just one week from his fourteenth birthday.
That meant, finally, a different school from Dudley. His cousin was off to Smeltings with Uncle Vernon. Harry would go to the local comprehensive.
The thought filled him with quiet joy. Dudley far away. No more daily bullying.
That morning, one week before his birthday, a little over a month before term started, he was making breakfast in the kitchen, moving quietly so as not to wake the Dursleys. As he carried his plate to the table, he heard the letter slot clatter.
Mail.