Chapter Text
Harry was running, running as fast as he could. This, however, wasn't unusual for him. Harry was always running from something: his aunt's sharp and disapproving gaze, his Uncle's red-faced screams, his cousin's small, meaty fist. Even when completely alone, Harry felt that familiar rush of adrenaline, the feeling of a shiver down your spine, the feeling of a clamp squeezing your heart, the feeling that something was there, waiting for a tiny slip, waiting to pounce.
Feelings were hard for Harry. He didn't know what it felt like to be hugged, held, or cherished by someone who loved you because no one loved Harry Potter. He didn't know what it felt like to have something of your own because Harry Potter owns nothing. He doesn't know jealousy, or giddiness, or safety and comfort.
Harry only knew anger and fear.
He knew that anger in others came about in different ways. He knew his Uncle shook and twitched, turned purple in the face, and began to sweat. He knew he shouted and swore, could go on and on until his throat went hoarse. He knew that his cousin Dudley went still and quiet, then slowly, like a boiling kettle, burst out, usually with punches and kicks and flailing limbs backed by weight and muscle.
Harry was also well acquainted with his own anger. Just as anger could be consistent in the likes of his Uncle and cousin, it could also be wildly unpredictable. Sometimes, nothing could anger Harry; everything just rolled off his back, and he let it all pass with an eye roll and a shrug. Other times, it stuck. Sometimes big things, like lingering thoughts on just how unfair his life was, how he lived in a cupboard when there was a spare room upstairs, how his teachers loath him because they listen to his relative's lies, and how he doesn't get a mum whose proud of him or a dad who loves him. Other times, it's something small. Like his cousin pushes him into a wall while walking past, a classmate who calls him weird, a rainy day when he's forgotten his coat. Either way, Harry could never predict how he would react.
Sometimes, it's a pounding headache that makes him see double and want to scream it away. Sometimes, it's messy and all over the place, directionless and infinite. Other times, it's sharp and mean, cruel worlds spat from a poisoned tongue that just can't stop until it's said its piece. A dark voice in the back of his head, a twitch in his fingers that always leads to something strange happening. Anger was just so hard for Harry to control, to predict.
Fear was much more manageable.
Harry was always afraid. Afraid of everyone and everything that could hurt him. And when he often caught his aunt's pale face whenever he did something unexplainably odd, he also knew to be afraid of himself.
It was consistent, and Harry's first lesson in life was that while anger is never-ending, fear only lasts so long. Eventually, it becomes something else, whether that's for better or worse, Harry doesn't know. All he does know is that when his heart races and his skin crawls now, a smile will twitch onto his lips because somewhere down the line, all the symptoms of fear merged into excitement.
There's a reason Harry Hunting became a game.
That's what Harry thought was happening before. It started off with a hoard of slapping footsteps chasing after him. A crowd of rowdy boys roared at his feet, laughing and jeering at him. Somewhere along the line, though, at what point Harry didn't know, the people behind him disappeared.
The rows of identical Privet Drive houses faded, too, Harry tried to look around him, but none of it made sense. The buildings around him were all multicolored, some the size of mice and others as tall as skyscrapers. The sky was a haze of swirling blues and greens; the bright pink sun sat next to the orange moon. Eyes filled the sky; some closed, but the open ones were bright gold, staring straight down at Harry. The further he ran, the faster he went, and everything around Harry began to blur. Things stopped making sense, but something deep within told him to try to see.
In the swirl of the strange world around him, Harry saw a snarling set of teeth dripping in thick saliva, a moon, and a key. He saw a dead white rabbit hanging by its neck, and he almost fell when a brown rat ran under his shoe. Harry saw many things, but those were the only things he could comprehend. The rest, he saw with unseeing eyes.
Then, that thing inside him perked up again; this time, it didn't urge but commanded. STOP. His whole body complied before he could even think, and Harry came to a screeching halt. He swayed forward and felt his stomach flip when he looked down and saw his toes hanging over the ledge of a cliff. Harry peered over the edge and saw a mirror rippling like it was made of water. In it, he saw his reflection grinning back at him.
"HARRY POTTER, THE BOY WHO LIVED"
The reflection spoke, and then, Harry felt a pair of hands shove his back, and before he knew it, he was falling…down…down and then-
"Up!" His aunt Petunia's voice hissed, accompanied by rapid knocking.
Harry jolted awake with a start, his heart racing, his body soaked in sweat. He clutched his forehead, feeling the sting where he must have bashed it against the sloped ceiling of his cupboard.
"Get up!"
Harry fumbled for the thin cord that turned on his flickery light bulb and gave it a harsh tug. The light stung his eyes, but he could hardly feel it over his pounding head. There would definitely be a bruise appearing soon.
"I'm coming!" he grumbled, crawling forward and pushing the door open. He looked up at his aunt, wearing her pink dressing gown, her hair in rollers, and her arms crossed. She had a book tucked under her arm and a familiar scowl on her face.
"You've been screaming the house down! Don't you know you could have woken Dudley? It's a Saturday!" She whispered pointedly, whipping her book out of her arm and swatting the backside of his head with it. Harry could only groan and send her a sharp glare, to which she only rolled her eyes. She looked as tired as he felt, and Harry wondered if she had gotten any sleep at all. He had often crept out of his cupboard in the night for a snack or the bathroom and caught her sitting on the sofa, reading her book or watching the TV on the lowest volume.
"Wash yourself; you're covered in sweat. Then you'd better get a start on breakfast. I'll be down twenty minutes or so once I'm ready." Without another word, Petunia took off towards the stairs. However, although he could not say why, just as she turned the corner, Harry found himself calling out to her.
"Aunt Petunia," He half expected her to ignore him, but perhaps even worse, she came to a complete stop and stared at him expectantly.
Harry felt his face flush, and he floundered momentarily, feeling like a tiny bug under a giant magnifying glass.
"Uh…Good morning?" He ended up blurting out.
Her pale blue eyes met his bright green ones, something that never happened. He wondered if she would say something back to him, but all she did was shake her head and continue walking upstairs.
Harry stood there for a minute, feeling gormless and wondering just how hard he hit his head before shaking himself out of it. He started slumping towards the bathroom and got himself into the shower. He's so exhausted he spends most of it leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. Eventually, the water does its job; by the end, he can feel most of his groggy feelings get washed away. He catches a glance of himself in the mirror, oddly enough he doesn’t even see a red mark on his forehead, let alone a blooming bruise. Just plain old Harry with his thick round glasses, messy hair and ugly lightning bolt scar. He gets dressed in his cousin's cast-offs and returns to his cupboard for a pair of socks. He's hopping on the spot, pulling one on, when he can hear heavy thumps overhead. His Uncle is waddling down in his stripey blue dressing gown; he doesn't even spare Harry a glance and makes his way straight to the living room. He can hear the morning news blasting out of the television a moment later. Harry's teacher told him once that if he kept rolling his eyes, they'd get stuck at the back of his head. It's yet to happen, but Uncle Vernon makes it feel close.
Saturday breakfast is a big affair, but every breakfast for the Dursleys is. Harry lays out butter, jam, and marmite for Aunt Petunia (as all she has every morning is a dry bit of toast with it smeared on). He opens the fridge and cracks the eggs into a big bowl, whisking them with a fork. He lays out the bacon and the sausages into baking trays, turns on the oven, pries open the can of beans, and pours them into a saucepan. He's just getting the footstool out of the sink when Aunt Petunia comes in. She's dressed in a well-kept dress, her hair is in neat, bouncy curls, and her makeup is done too. Aunt Petunia is always dressed like she's about to go somewhere lovely, but she never does. She ties the apron hanging on the door around her tiny waist and opens the top cupboard Harry has yet grown tall enough to reach, getting out the boxes of brightly colored sugar-filled cereal Dudley has every morning after his cooked breakfast. Harry shoves the stool back under the sink and starts setting the table.
Aunt Petunia plays the radio while she cooks the eggs, and Harry sneaks a seat at the table. He pours a glass of orange juice and props up his chin on his palm, watching his aunt potter around quietly, stirring the pan with a wooden spoon. When he was little, Harry used moments like these to pretend she was his mum, or someone like a mum.
Dudley came bounding into the room.
"Mum! I'm hungry!" He complained, slumping down at the table, but not before tipping Harry's chair up so he fell onto the laminate. The illusion never did last long.
"Almost finished, darling," She hummed. "Vernon! Breakfast!"
"Coming, dear!"
Harry knabbed a bit of toast once it was put down and smeared a blob of jam, shoving it down while he had the time.
"Check the oven," she told him a moment later, coming around to plop spoons of eggs onto Dudley's waiting plate. Harry was wrapping a tea towel around his hand to take out the hot tray when Vernon got to the kitchen. When he sat down, his chair shook and made a funny noise.
"Thank you, dear, " he said, and when Petunia ducked down, he placed a smacking kiss on her cheek.
"Ew," Dudley shivered, for once Harry agreed with him.
Vernon just laughed. "Go get the post Dudley,"
"Make Harry do it,"
"Go get the post boy,"
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry put down the oven tray and tossed the towel onto the counter.
Harry left the kitchen and stood at one end of the corridor. At the other end, at the bottom of the front door, was a small stack of three envelopes. An ordinary sight for a Saturday morning. However, despite this horribly mundane morning and that horribly mundane pile, there was also something very odd about it all. The envelope on the top of the pile was thick and held Harry's attention as though it was something spectacular when it actually looked just the same as any other boring letter. How strange, Harry thought, taking a step closer.
"There's no post on Sundays," He could hear his Uncle say from the kitchen, which was an odd for him to say out of the blue.
Harry took another step, and he heard his cupboard door slam closed. He looked to his left at it but saw nothing unusual. Maybe Aunt Petunia opened a window in the kitchen, causing a breeze.
Harry took another step. He heard his Uncle muttering to himself in the living room. He peaked through the corridor door and saw him kneeling in front of the fireplace, burning something. Harry was just about to call out to his Uncle, asking him what he was doing, but when he blinked, his Uncle was gone, and so was the fire.
Harry's head began to hurt, perhaps where he had banged it earlier, but his legs kept moving forward.
Another step, the sound of screeching birds flying over his head. Another step, the feeling of seasickness like he was on a rickety boat swirling in his stomach. Another step, a tiny voice that sounded like his own whispering, "Happy Birthday Harry." Another step, a great loud bang from a shotgun, making his ears begin to ring.
Another step and…nothing. It all stopped. All the noise, all the dread, all the excitement—gone—as if it never happened. It was just Harry standing in a corridor lined with photos of the Dursleys right before a small, boring pile of letters.
Harry bends down and feels a soft warmth spread up his arm when he picks up the top envelope. It was...nice. It slowed his heartbeat, and he could feel a smile twitch on his lips. This feeling is subtle and quiet; it feels like someone holding his hand. It isn't like anything Harry has ever felt before.
H POTTER
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
Privet Drive
Little Whinging
SURREY
Harry pushes his thumb under the red wax seal, and... he reads.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
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 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Harry reads and reads. Then he re-reads it all again. He doesn't know what to think, but rather, he knows what to do. For as long as Harry can remember, his body has always known what to do, far before his brain can figure out why, but still. Harry trusts in his instinct to grab the handle on the front door. He braces himself for what he might see, then whips it open and is greeted with...an owl.
"Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived." The owl chirped gravely from its place on the front step.
While Harry debates his descent into madness, all he can do is reply.
"Hello, The Owl Who Spoke,"
He has a feeling things are about to get very, very weird.
But then again, the most exciting things were.