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After his parents’ untimely passing at the hands of Dark wizards, Harry Potter was sent to live with his aunt and his uncle. And while Harry was too young to quite understand what was going on, he knew one thing for certain: the Dursleys despised him.
Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and his cousin, Dudley, were all convinced he was some sort of freak. Young Harry, who had no memory of his parents or their magic (and his own), had no choice but to believe them. After all, it was true: he could do things no one else could. That was strange and weird—which made him strange and weird. These suspicions were only confirmed by his teachers and schoolmates, who made it a point to either outright ignore him or constantly belittle him.
When Harry started getting letters addressed to him, he was skeptical. Unfortunately, it would take him a few days to actually get his hands on one—as Uncle Vernon went to increasingly desperate lengths to keep them from him. Eventually, it got so bad that the four of them relocated to a shack in the middle of the ocean—all to escape the letters. Harry had no idea what “Hogwarts” was, but he knew it must’ve been important to provoke such a reaction from his relatives.
He didn’t realize just how important the letters were until he saw a hulking figure break down the door of their temporary shelter and regard him with a kind expression. The man explained that he was Hagrid, the groundskeeper at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Magic was real, and Harry was a wizard invited to attend the school in order to hone his magical skills.
What followed was a confusing couple of days, consisting of Hagrid taking Harry around Diagon Alley—the wizarding equivalent of a shopping mall—and helping him buy school supplies. Hagrid was also patient enough to educate him on the wizarding world, and never hesitated to answer his questions.
Well, except for one. When Harry asked about the Dark Lord—a phrase he heard whispered between two rather suspicious-looking people—Hagrid had paled and clammed up. It took some coaxing, but Hagrid eventually gave in and told him about the Dark Lord Voldemort. Supposedly, he was an evil wizard who was determined to take over the wizarding world. When Harry tested the name on his tongue, Hagrid had clapped a hand over his mouth and made him promise never to say it again. Harry got the sense there was something else Hagrid wasn’t telling him, but he never quite figured it out. He would not figure that particular secret out until two decades later.
The time between his shopping trip with Hagrid and September 1st dragged on for eons. Harry was looking forward to the thought of being with people like him—he was looking forward to belonging. When the day finally arrived, he boarded the Hogwarts Express and managed to find a free compartment; Harry took a seat and stared out the window. At some point, two red-headed twins joined him and Harry felt his nerves slowly start to go away—at least, until they came flooding back as he walked through the Great Hall.
From what Hagrid told him, the Sorting Hat determined which House a first-year would end up in: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, or Hufflepuff. It took the hat a long time to choose Harry’s House. Harry grew increasingly uncomfortable by the pointed coughs, exaggerated throat-clearing, and restless fidgeting he noticed from the other students. Finally, after what felt like far too long, the Hat shouted “Hufflepuff!” Harry took note of the professors’ strange reactions—namely, the hook-nosed one with long black hair and the older woman with glasses and a tight bun—and took a seat at the end of the table. He was too frazzled to pay attention to the rest of the Sorting.
Fortunately, the boy next to him was rather nice. Cedric Diggory was in his third year at Hogwarts and he was looking to be a Prefect in the coming years, which apparently made him an impromptu leader among the Hufflepuff students. He engaged Harry in conversation and didn’t look at him like he was crazy, which certainly helped Harry feel a bit calmer. Still, even Cedric’s reassurances, the cozy and lush common room, and the prospect of a bed with a nice mattress couldn’t overcome Harry’s dread and fear. He stared up at the ceiling that first night in his dormitory, listening to his roommates snore. He was terrified that he didn’t belong there. It seemed like the wide majority of the other students grew up in the wizarding world, after all—they had a lot more knowledge and experience than he did.
His first year at Hogwarts came and went far faster than Harry wanted. Before long, he was returning to the Dursleys for the summer. And somehow, they were even worse than they were before. While they mainly resorted to antagonism before, they soon began to force him to do increasingly menial chores that kept him busy until the sun came down. Harry was only given one meal a day; Dudley continued to bring his friends around and beat Harry to a pulp; and Aunt Petunia continued to make disparaging remarks about his parents. Harry was angry and exhausted. He thought being at Hogwarts would be an escape, but it only made the Dursleys’ treatment of him seem even crueler. The stark difference between life at Hogwarts and life at Privet Drive was enough to send his mind spinning.
Harry made this pilgrimage back to the Dursleys for the summer throughout his entire time at Hogwarts. Each time, he was forced to throw his school materials into the coat closet, secured with several industrial padlocks. Each time, Harry was subjected to increasingly cruel treatment. And each time, Harry was forced to suppress his magic—which proved to be more arduous with each passing year.
Hedwig proved to be Harry’s saving grace. Hedwig was virtually the only friend he had—and the only one who could understand the extent of his suffering at the hands of the Dursleys. Harry felt horrible that Hedwig was practically banned from the house, but Hedwig always nipped at his ear when he started to feel guilty about it. Harry had no idea what she did during the day, but he was confident in her hunting ability. She always returned late at night, when it was safe for Harry to jimmy the window and let her in.
When he returned to Hogwarts each year, Harry was always optimistic—at least, at first. He always hoped that the feeling of belonging would start to grow on him. It would take him a bit to adjust, he told himself. It was okay if he didn’t feel like he belonged during his first year… or second year… or third year. He would find his place eventually.
But his school years proved uneventful, save for a strange buzzing and humming feeling in his chest. This feeling never went away, and only amplified during moments of particular stress. Harry debated telling Madam Pomfrey, but ultimately decided against it. Entering the infirmary would incite Pomfrey’s questioning about the scars laced across his skin. His body and his skin told a story Harry himself could not. And he didn’t intend to ever tell anyone about it.
The Dursleys’ abuse continued, to the point where Harry began to consider if they were right about him. Maybe he was a freak, maybe he was a monster. That would explain their cruel behavior. They weren’t harming him out of spite—they were harming him because he deserved it. This was his place in the world; this was where he belonged: crumpled on the floor as his uncle stood over him with whitening knuckles. Harry soon grew accustomed to suppressing the ever-present buzz of his magic fighting against him.
Of course, the reminder of his freakishness was present at Hogwarts, too. The Potions professor, Severus Snape, seemed intent on constantly berating him. This treatment only confirmed Harry’s suspicions: he didn’t belong at Hogwarts. He was unnatural—his magic was unnatural.
This unconventionality soon physically manifested in his magic. Suddenly, his wand didn’t want to obey him; suddenly, he could destroy things with a simple look—but he couldn’t put them back together. His magic was Dark and destructive. It never healed, it only took. It soon required more and more energy from Harry to perform even the simplest of spells and Charms.
Eventually, this culminated in one fateful duel in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Harry was dueling a classmate when, suddenly, it felt as if the strings holding him up simply… snapped. Then, his knees were giving out from under him and he was falling to the floor with spinning vision.
Madam Pomfrey couldn’t explain it. His magic was fading. With each verbal spell he cast, his power waned. It was a strange sort of cannibalism—his magic was consuming him, just as he was consuming it. Ultimately, if Harry continued on like this—according to Madam Pomfrey—he could risk losing his magic forever.
Harry intended to keep that revelation a secret. However, the Hufflepuff Head of House, Pomona Sprout, soon found out. Upon learning of his condition, Professor Sprout took him to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. But the Healers there told him that, if he wanted to guarantee his own safety, he would never practice magic ever again.
So, with no other real option, Harry dropped out of Hogwarts. He studied up on magical theory and took his NEWTs early—and passed with flying colors. He found that, if he wasn’t faced with external pressure, he could learn new things rather quickly. Harry’s remarkable test scores allowed him to further study magic, until he ultimately decided to narrow in on Ancient Runes. He researched the subject extensively, and took up a residency to further expand his knowledge. Thankfully, Ancient Runes was largely theoretical—which meant that Harry could get by without using his magic. Within a few years, he returned to Hogwarts as the Ancient Runes professor.
That journey brings him to the present moment, as he sits in his office at Hogwarts and stares at Neville Longbottom in complete and utter shock. The other man just told him of the prophecy that determined their fates: the one that Voldemort supposedly triggered by hunting down Neville’s parents.
“You’re… serious,” Harry chokes out, at a loss for words. “I could’ve been…” he breaks off. If he had been born a mere day earlier, then things would’ve been different—his parents would’ve been murdered by Voldemort, and he would’ve been the Boy Who Lived.
Selfishly speaking, Harry is glad that he didn’t have to be a soldier. From what he heard of Neville’s adventures throughout his school years, he was almost constantly in danger. Harry had enough going on in his childhood already.
But this new information is still concerning. It’s very likely that Voldemort will come after him soon, too. And Harry isn’t foolish enough to think he’d survive a duel with him. He can hardly use his magic—even if he were able to keep himself alive, his magic would soon fade and entirely disappear. “Yeah,” Neville confirms, breaking him out of his unsavory thoughts.
“Why didn’t Dumbledore tell me?” Harry asks. Dumbledore and he were never close—the two of them only met once throughout the course of Harry’s time at Hogwarts. But that doesn’t feel like a legitimate excuse. This prophecy could’ve put him in real danger. Why is he only just now learning about it?
“I have no idea,” Neville admits, biting his lip. He looks tremendously guilty, which only makes Harry feel worse. He ultimately doesn’t blame Neville for any of this. He doesn’t envy Neville either—he’s been faced with the Dark Lord’s wrath for more than twenty years, since the very moment he was born. While Harry’s childhood wasn’t exactly peaceful, at least he was relatively safe within the walls of Hogwarts. From what Neville told him, he was constantly in danger. “I’m so sorry,” Neville continues.
Harry’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tries to take a deep breath, but the effort doesn’t quite work. Neville hovers awkwardly for a few moments, before leaving with a declaration that he’ll give Harry some alone time. He reassures him that he’s always there if Harry needs someone to talk to, and Harry manages to thank him despite feeling as if the world is crumbling all around him. And within moments, he finds that it is somewhat crumbling: everything in the room is shuddering and shaking. Dark shadows flit about his vision, swirling around and making him increasingly dizzy. Harry reaches out to brace himself against his desk. His ears are ringing.
“Harry Potter.”
Harry recognizes that voice from his nightmares. He looks up so fast that he nearly gives himself whiplash—only to find that there’s someone standing in the doorway. His vision slowly clears, revealing Lord Voldemort himself. Harry’s heart catches in his throat as the dark-cloaked man enters his office, rendering his protective wards inconsequential.
“You have narrowly escaped death at my hand,” Voldemort says, his fingers exploring the wand in his hand. Harry feels cold-blooded fear at the realization that he’s holding the Elder Wand—the same wand Dumbledore wielded when he was alive. “For years, you hid yourself at Hogwarts—trying to divert any and all attention. But no more.”
“I won’t die,” Harry hears himself say. I can’t die, he thinks to himself. There’s so much left to do.
“Stupidly optimistic,” Voldemort drawls. Harry feels something in him begin to snap. The thread Harry is holding onto is fraying and threatening to plunge him into the dark depths of his own magic. His hands are shaking at his sides; the only sensation Harry can register is pure, white-hot rage. Voldemort continues relentlessly. “Just like your parents. I’m afraid their idealism didn’t serve them very well either, in the end.”
“Shut up!” Harry screams, finally acknowledging the wrath he’d been holding back throughout the conversation. The lights in the office shudder menacingly, before cracking and breaking. Shadows swirl and writhe around him, creating a destructive vortex that sends winds whipping through the air. The furniture clatters against the floor. The pictures on the wall fall to the ground and break; the portraits on the wall run about in fear. Harry feels a chill rush across his skin at this inexplicable display of raw, uncontrollable power.
“You.” The Dark Lord’s voice is twisted with maniacal awe and sadistic glee. Harry takes a step backwards, dread coiling in your chest as he sees the predatory gleam in Voldemort’s eyes. The man—no, the monster—matches his retreat with a step forward of his own. There’s a horrible grin growing on his face, sending Harry’s heart thundering in his chest. “You’re the Obscurial I’ve been looking for,” Voldemort breathes, a sense of dark wonder in his voice.
Harry doesn’t have the faintest clue what an Obscurial is, but he doesn’t like the hungry look on Voldemort’s face one bit. And somehow, Voldemort seems to sense his wary confusion, because he continues to speak. “An Obscurial is a young wizard who develops a parasitical magical force inside them—an Obscurus—after significant trauma or abuse. In Obscurial form, they are unspeakably powerful.”
Harry’s heart is thundering in his chest. His fingers are twitching and his wand is practically burning a hole in his pocket. But he knows better than to exert himself and use what little magical energy he has left. Everything in the room seems to freeze—held in a precarious balance between fear and security.
Voldemort takes another step forward, reaching out and touching a book suspended in mid-air. It falls to the ground as he taps it, clattering to the ground with an exaggerated thump. He regards the room around him with calculated precision, evidently taking note of the now vacant portraits and tattered wallpaper that resulted from Harry’s outburst. Voldemort then turns to face Harry again. There is no fear in his eyes. “The oldest documented Obscurial was only sixteen years old,” he breathes. The statement settles in the air with an uncomfortable tension. “I’ve been looking for a child who didn’t exist.” The Dark Lord continues his prowl, moving impossibly closer.
“Get away from me,” Harry says. But Voldemort makes no indication that he even heard the statement, instead reaching out and placing a hand on his cheek. Harry instinctively flinches, expecting pain to erupt through his temple. But Voldemort only traces a long nail across Harry’s cheek, sending a prolonged shiver down his spine.
Harry wants nothing more than to get away from Voldemort, but he is painfully aware of his surroundings. If he were to release all his power, he would put the students and professors in the castle in danger—in addition to damaging the castle itself. And while most Obscurials would not know such control, Harry Potter is different. He has spent twenty-four years restraining himself—constantly suppressing the bubbling, unsteady cauldron of his magic within him.
Harry still allows himself a brief glance at the door, if only to maintain the illusion that he has a choice in the matter. The Dark Lord notices this, and his face contorts into a patronizing smile. “Don’t bother,” he grins, his lips blurring and ripping through his cheekbones. “Now that I’ve found you, I will never let you go.”
In that moment, Harry mourns for the life he never had. He grieves for the childhood he lost to unforgiving, cruel relatives; laments the friendships he never formed; and misses the family he never had. Harry takes a shuddering breath and attempts to push away his spiraling thoughts, but they quickly return in force. Truthfully, Harry has been looking for an explanation his entire life: one that could suitably explain his near constant pain, his unwitting retreat into the shadows after even the simplest of spells. He went to more Healers than he can count; he consulted literature from nearly every discipline of magic. Harry had just grown to accept—albeit begrudgingly—that he would never know the reason for his magic’s strange behavior.
How is it that Voldemort can waltz into his office with practiced ease, stand before him with a glint in his eyes, and swiftly provide the exact answers Harry needs? Harry almost wants to doubt his theory, but it sounds accurate. Furthermore, of all the research he consulted, there was one subsect of magic he never studied: Dark magic. It makes far too much sense that the answer remained in the same shadows Harry was fighting off.
A harsh grip breaks him out of his thoughts. Harry looks up, accidentally meeting Voldemort’s gaze and staring into his crimson eyes. Distantly, he realizes that he probably isn’t as afraid as he should be. His heart is still racing; his skin is still thrumming; but there’s something scarily similar to hope brewing in his chest. Could Voldemort—the same person destined to be his enemy—prove to be the one to save him?
Harry doesn’t get much time to contemplate the question before he’s being swept away into the shadows. Idly, he wonders if he was always fated to be fixed in Voldemort’s sights.