Math had always been a language Harrison could understand.
While shapes and colors were concepts he struggled to grasp, numbers were concrete, predictable. They existed independently of sight—solid, immutable truths he could hold in his mind.
On this particular morning, as Mrs. Cartwright handed out worksheets filled with basic addition and subtraction problems, Harrison quietly folded his hands on his desk. He already knew the answers, but he waited patiently for instructions.
"Today," Mrs. Cartwright began, "we're going to practice our math skills. Don't worry if it feels tricky—that's what practice is for!" Her voice was warm, encouraging.
She moved around the classroom, distributing Braille versions of the worksheets to Harrison and other materials to the rest of the students. As she explained the exercises, the room filled with the sound of pencils scratching paper.
Harrison ran his fingers over the raised dots on his worksheet. The problems were simple: 5 + 2, 9 – 3, 4 + 4. He finished in less than a minute, setting the paper aside and resting his hands in his lap.
Mrs. Cartwright noticed almost immediately. "Finished already, Harrison?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said softly.
Her eyebrows lifted. "That's wonderful! Let me check." She glanced at his worksheet, carefully tracing the answers with her finger. Every problem was correct.
"Good job, Harrison," she said with a smile. "You can try these extra problems while we wait for the others to finish."
She placed another sheet on his desk, but Harrison hesitated. "Is it okay if I just do them in my head?"
Mrs. Cartwright blinked. "In your head?"
"Yes, ma'am. It's faster."
Curious, she nodded. "Alright, give it a try."
---
The extra problems were slightly more advanced: 12 + 8, 15 – 7, 3 × 4. Harrison answered each one with quiet confidence.
Mrs. Cartwright tested him further, posing increasingly complex questions aloud:
"What's 25 divided by 5?"
"Five," Harrison replied instantly.
"What's 18 plus 14?"
"Thirty-two."
She hesitated, then asked, "What's 6 times 7?"
"Forty-two."
By now, several of the other students were watching, their own work forgotten. Lucy, sitting nearby, whispered, "He's really fast!"
Mrs. Cartwright laughed, a mixture of amazement and delight. "You're right, Lucy. He is."
---
That evening, as she marked the class's assignments, Mrs. Cartwright couldn't stop thinking about Harrison. His ability to solve problems far beyond the level of his peers was extraordinary—not just for his age, but for anyone.
She decided to test him more thoroughly the next day.
---
The following morning, after the class had settled, Mrs. Cartwright approached Harrison's desk with a set of questions she had prepared.
"Harrison, do you feel up to trying something a bit more challenging today?" she asked gently.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, his expression curious.
She began with multiplication and division problems, then moved to basic algebra: If 2x + 3 = 11, what is x?
"Four," he answered without hesitation.
She continued, pushing further: A train leaves Station A at 9:00 a.m. traveling at 60 miles per hour. A second train leaves Station B, 120 miles away, at 9:30 a.m. traveling at 80 miles per hour. When do the trains meet?
"10:30 a.m.," he said after a brief pause.
Mrs. Cartwright felt a chill run down her spine. She wasn't sure she could have answered that one as quickly.
---
At recess, she called a meeting with the headmaster.
"Mr. Reynolds, I think we need to discuss Harrison Potter," she began, her tone serious but enthusiastic.
The headmaster frowned. "Is there an issue?"
"No, quite the opposite," Mrs. Cartwright said. "He's... gifted. Remarkably so. His understanding of mathematics is years beyond his grade level."
Mr. Reynolds leaned back in his chair, adjusting his glasses. "Are you suggesting we advance him to a higher grade?"
"Not necessarily," she replied. "He's still very young, and he might struggle socially with older students. But I do think he needs more advanced material. If we don't challenge him, he'll get bored."
The headmaster nodded thoughtfully. "We can look into enrichment programs. Perhaps a tutor?"
"That could work," Mrs. Cartwright agreed. "I just don't want him to feel overlooked. He has such potential."
---
That evening, Petunia received a phone call.
"Harrison? Advanced?" she repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief.
"Yes, Mrs. Dursley," Mrs. Cartwright said. "His mathematical abilities are exceptional. We'd like to provide him with extra support—something to help him reach his full potential."
Petunia was quiet for a moment. She had always known Harrison was bright—he picked up on things quickly, often asking questions that caught her off guard. But hearing it confirmed by someone else made her feel strangely proud.
"I see," she said finally. "If it's for his benefit, then of course."
---
Harrison didn't understand what all the fuss was about.
He overheard snippets of conversations between Mrs. Cartwright and the headmaster, between Petunia and Vernon. Words like "special" and "opportunities" floated in the air, but they didn't mean much to him.
To Harrison, numbers were simply a comfort—a way of making sense of a world that was often confusing and chaotic.
