1991

Nearly a decade had slipped away like grains of sand through an hourglass since the fateful morning when the Dursleys were rudely awakened by the peculiar presence of their nephew on the doorstep. Yet, despite the passage of time, Privet Drive remained an immutable bastion of suburban monotony. The first rays of dawn painted the familiar scene: meticulously trimmed lawns, perfectly aligned picket fences, and the gleaming brass number four adorning the Dursleys' front door, as though frozen in time.

Inside the Dursleys' home, little had changed since that pivotal night when Mr. Dursley had been unnerved by an extraordinary news report about owls. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft, golden hues across the living room—an almost identical replica of its former self. The furnishings stood exactly as they had a decade ago, frozen in a state of perpetual mundanity.

Amidst this static tableau, however, the photographs on the mantelpiece served as silent witnesses to the passage of time. Where once there had been images of a chubby-cheeked infant adorned in an array of mismatched bonnets, now there stood a robust brunet boy, the spitting image of Mr. Dursley, embarking on the adventures of childhood. Dudley Dursley, now a prepubescent lad, grinned triumphantly in each snapshot—riding his first bicycle, laughing gleefully on a carousel at the fair, engrossed in a computer game with his father, and enveloped in the loving embrace of his doting mother.

But amidst the bustling life chronicled in those photographs, there was a conspicuous absence—a glaring void that spoke volumes about the Dursleys' neglect of their other nephew. No trace remained to suggest that another boy dwelled within the confines of their stifling home, erased from existence like a ghostly specter in the shadows.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

The silence of the room was punctured by the harsh tones of Aunt Petunia's voice, piercing through the tranquility like a sharp knife through silk.

With a jolt, Harry stirred from his slumber, his senses abruptly yanked from the realm of dreams into the harsh reality of his aunt's demands. The sound of her insistent knocking echoed through the room, a relentless drumbeat of morning routine.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Harry struggled to shake off the remnants of his dream—a fleeting memory of a flying motorcycle that danced on the edges of his consciousness like a wisp of smoke. It was a welcome respite from the dreariness of his everyday life, a glimpse into a world far removed from the confines of Privet Drive.

His aunt was back outside the door. "Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Nearly," said Harry.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

Harry groaned.

"What did you say?" Harry had heard his aunt call from behind the door.

"Nothing, nothing..."

Dudley's birthday—how could he have forgotten? The morning light filtered through the dusty windows of the small bedroom, casting faint shadows across the worn floorboards. Harry stirred from his slumber, his movements sluggish as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. As he swung his legs out of bed, his gaze fell upon a pair of socks peeking out from beneath the tangle of sheets. With a resigned sigh, he reached down to retrieve them, only to recoil in disgust as a large spider skittered across his hand. With practiced ease, Harry flicked the arachnid away, its tiny form disappearing into the shadows beneath the bed.

The cupboard under the stairs loomed ominously in the corner of the room, its cramped confines filled with a cacophony of spiders scuttling along the walls. Harry's eyes lingered on the narrow doorway, a silent reminder of the cramped quarters he called home. It seemed that no matter where he turned, the spiders were never far behind, their presence a constant source of discomfort in his already stifling environment.

After dressing in Dudley's cast-off clothes, which hung loosely from his slender frame, Harry made his way down the dimly lit hallway towards the kitchen. The air was heavy with anticipation, the aroma of frying bacon wafting through the air. Upon entering the kitchen, Harry's gaze was immediately drawn to the table, which groaned under the weight of Dudley's birthday bounty. The sheer extravagance of Dudley's gifts filled Harry with a sense of unease, their opulence a stark contrast to the meager existence he knew all too well.

Dudley's obsession with material possessions baffled Harry, particularly his inexplicable desire for a racing bike. As he surveyed the array of presents, Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment towards his cousin, whose penchant for violence often made Harry the target of his aggression. Despite Dudley's relentless bullying, Harry had learned to rely on his speed and agility to evade his cousin's wrath.

With a sigh, Harry cast a rueful glance at his reflection in the mirror, his thin frame and knobbly knees a stark reminder of his own insignificance within the Dursley household. Yet amidst the sea of shortcomings, there was one feature that Harry held dear—the lightning-shaped scar etched into his forehead. It was a constant reminder of a past shrouded in mystery, a symbol of resilience in the face of adversity. The memory of Aunt Petunia's dismissive response lingered in Harry's mind as he went about his morning routine. With a heavy heart, he recalled the countless times he had questioned his peculiar scar, only to be met with terse explanations and veiled hostility from his aunt.

"In the car crash when your parents died," she had said quickly and with an air to dissuade any follow up questions.

Don't ask questions—that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

As Harry tended to the sizzling bacon, the rhythmic sound of his spatula against the frying pan was punctuated by the abrupt entrance of Uncle Vernon. His presence filled the room with an oppressive air, his booming voice cutting through the morning stillness like a thunderclap. With a curt command, he admonished Harry for his unkempt appearance, the demand for a haircut a familiar refrain in their strained relationship.

Harry's gaze flickered to the reflection in the nearby window, where his unruly hair stood in stark contrast to the polished facade of Privet Drive. Despite Aunt Petunia's attempts to tame his wild locks, Harry's hair remained stubbornly defiant, a physical manifestation of his resistance to conform to the Dursleys' rigid expectations. Each admonition from Uncle Vernon served as a reminder of his outsider status, a constant reminder that he would never truly belong in this stifling suburban world.

As the aroma of sizzling eggs filled the kitchen, Harry moved deftly around the cramped space, flipping the eggs with practiced precision. Dudley's heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, heralding his arrival alongside his mother. Despite the early hour, Harry's morning routine had already begun.

Dudley's resemblance to Uncle Vernon was uncanny, his features a mirror image of his father's stern countenance. His bloated face, devoid of any trace of refinement, seemed to blend seamlessly with his thick neck, giving him an almost caricature-like appearance. Aunt Petunia's unwavering adoration for her son only heightened the absurdity, as she often compared Dudley's appearance to that of a cherubic angel.

Amidst the cluttered kitchen table, Harry carefully arranged the plates of eggs and bacon, the limited space making the task all the more challenging. Dudley's arrival brought with it an air of expectancy, his small eyes gleaming with anticipation as he eagerly surveyed the array of presents before him. However, his initial excitement quickly waned, his disappointment palpable as he realized the contents of his gifts did not meet his lofty expectations.

"Thirty-six," he said, peering over the heap of presents with a disappointed frown, his chubby fingers meticulously counting each gift.

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy," his mother chimed in, her voice laced with forced enthusiasm as she gestured toward a lavishly wrapped gift tucked beneath a towering stack.

Dudley's face flushed crimson with embarrassment and frustration. "All right, thirty-seven then," he muttered begrudgingly, his voice strained with irritation.

Meanwhile, Harry, sensing the impending storm of a Dudley tantrum, hastily shoveled down his bacon, each bite taken with urgency as if trying to fortify himself against the impending chaos. The clatter of utensils against plates echoed in the tense atmosphere, mingling with the palpable anticipation of Dudley's explosive reaction.

Aunt Petunia's sharp instincts evidently sensed the brewing storm, prompting her to interject hastily, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?''

Dudley's ponderous contemplation seemed like a Herculean task, each thought etched on his flushed face with the weight of decision-making. Harry stifled a chuckle, quickly veiling his amusement behind a feigned facade of indifference.

After what felt like an eternity of deliberation, Dudley finally spoke, his words emerging with painstaking effort, "So I'll have thirty...thirty..."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," Aunt Petunia corrected gently, her voice dripping with maternal indulgence.

Dudley's shoulders slumped as the reality of his diminished gift count sank in, his heavy sigh reverberating through the room. With a resigned grunt, he plopped himself down, clutching the nearest parcel with a mixture of disappointment and resignation.

Uncle Vernon let out a hearty chuckle, his booming laughter filling the air. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, I say. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!" he exclaimed, his hand affectionately tousling Dudley's hair, his expression brimming with paternal pride.

At that exact moment, the telephone rang, shattering the air with its shrill tone, and Aunt Petunia hurried off to answer it, leaving Harry and Uncle Vernon to observe Dudley's extravagant unwrapping spree. With bated breath, they watched as Dudley tore through layers of wrapping paper, revealing an array of lavish gifts—a gleaming racing bike, a sleek video camera, a miniature remote control airplane, two cutting-edge computer games, and a state-of-the-art VCR. He was in the midst of unveiling a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia returned from the call, her countenance etched with a mix of anger and concern.

"Bad news, Vernon," she announced, her voice laced with worry. "Mrs. Figg's gone and broken her leg. She can't take him." Her gaze shifted pointedly towards Harry, her tone tinged with resentment.

Dudley's expression twisted into a mask of horror, mirroring Harry's internal elation. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents whisked him away for a day of amusement—be it adventure parks, burger joints, or movie theaters. Meanwhile, Harry was relegated to spending the day with Mrs. Figg, a peculiar old woman residing two streets away. The mere thought of it sent shivers down Harry's spine. Mrs. Figg's house was suffused with the pungent aroma of cabbage, and her penchant for forcing Harry to peruse photographs of her countless cats only added to his disdain. There was an unsettling aura about Mrs. Figg—one that hinted at secrets concealed beneath her eccentric facade, secrets she would never divulge.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he'd planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested. It was an idea made out of desperation.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy," Aunt Petunia sighed, the emphasis on the word hates had been in almost admiration. “She’d never take him even if we paid her.”

Uncle Vernon growled in agreement. The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn't there—or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend—Yvonne?" Uncle Vernon tried, looking toward his wife with a hopeful look. One that was dashed when she responded.

"On vacation in Majorca, unfortunately," snapped Aunt Petunia.

"You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (he'd be able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley's computer, not that he’d ever tell).

Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon. "And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled. “I don’t think so.”

"I won't blow up the house," said Harry, but they weren't listening. They never listened when he spoke up.

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia slowly, "...and leave him in the car..."

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone.…" Uncle Vernon regained his composure at the thought of Harry being left to his own devices anywhere.

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying—it had been years since he'd really cried—but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted. It was a weapon he had learned how to wield with swift precision.

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I...don't...want...him...t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs.

If Harry hadn’t seen it so often he was sure even he could see through how obviously fake they were, and yet...

"He always sp-spoils everything!" Dudley shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms. Just then, the doorbell rang—

"Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically—and a moment later, Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was Dudley’s second in command and was usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once at the sight of his friend. To Harry, it was obvious the speed he dropped the act should mean Dudley had been faking his tears the whole time. To his aunt and uncle, however, it seemed like willful ignorance.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's and started wagging a finger close up to his eyes, "I'm warning you now, boy—any funny business, anything at all—and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, "honestly…” But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever believed him.

The problem persisted—peculiar occurrences trailed Harry like shadows, yet attempting to explain to the Dursleys that he wasn't the architect of these anomalies proved futile. The Dursleys remained staunchly unyielding to the notion that Harry didn't instigate these strange events.

On one occasion, Aunt Petunia, exasperated by Harry's repeated return from the barber seemingly untouched, took matters into her own hands. Armed with a pair of kitchen scissors, she wielded her makeshift expertise, shearing Harry's hair to an almost bald state, sparing only his bangs, which she allowed to linger "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley found immense amusement in Harry's expense, reveling in laughter that echoed through the house. That night, Harry lay awake, haunted by the anticipation of the following school day. He could already picture the ridicule that awaited him—the relentless mockery for his over-sized clothes and the spectacle of his taped glasses.

The following morning, Harry rose from his bed to find his hair miraculously restored to its previous length, defying Aunt Petunia's shears. Despite his earnest attempts to explain the inexplicable, he found himself confined to the cramped confines of the cupboard under the stairs for a week as punishment.

On another occasion, Aunt Petunia had attempted to dress Harry in a ghastly old sweater of Dudley's—brown with garish orange puff balls. The more she struggled to pull it over Harry's head, the more it seemed to shrink, until it resembled something that might fit a hand puppet rather than a boy. Aunt Petunia, attributing the shrinking to a laundry mishap, spared Harry from punishment—a rare departure from the norm. It was a fleeting respite, a hint that perhaps not all mishaps were Harry's doing, a moment he cherished amidst the harshness of his everyday life.

On the other hand, he'd gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney, the cold brick pressing against his back as he clung to it for dear life. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry's headmistress, detailing his dangerous antics and reprimanding them for his behavior. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump, propelling him to the roof and into a predicament he couldn't explain away easily.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cramped cupboard, or Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room. It was like a brand new adventure to him, a welcome change from the monotony of his usual routine. The anticipation of the unknown filled him with a sense of excitement he hadn't felt in a long time.

It was magical.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about all sorts of things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles.

"...roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them and slowed as it passed them. “Can’t stand a single one of them.”

“I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "It was flying...like a bird almost."

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the motorcyclist in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache: "MOTORCYCLES DO NOT FLY!"

Dudley and Piers chuckled until their giggles spilled into overt laughter. The laughter mixed with Uncle Vernon’s shouts was a sound that swelled up anxious feelings in Harry’s stomach.

I know they don't," said Harry, defensively. "It was only a dream." But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon—they seemed to think he might get dangerous ideas. As if anything out of public conscience were some great stain on their day.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It wasn't bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn't as dirty as he had been—ice cream coating the area around his mouth and chin.

Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first. Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too good to last. These sorts of good tidings don’t happen to him without some sort of cost—some sort of balancing act to swing the pendulum back toward normal.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone.

Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. It had seemed to be the exhibit they were most excited for. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it into a trash can—but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. It had been fast asleep coiled around itself in a singular pile.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils with bated anticipation. "Make it mooove," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass once, twice, and then a third time, even harder, but the snake didn't budge an inch. It remained coiled as it slept.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake ignored him completely. "This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. Just before the snake he saw his own reflection in the glass pane—and the face looking back at him was frowning. It was a look he felt ashamed of—in that single look he felt a lifetime of yearning for things that he could never have, number one of course being his parents.

He then noticed the snake beyond his reflection—he wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself—no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house. “I guess in that sense we’re a little alike, aren’t we?” Harry had whispered under his breath.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's. He had stood back and wondered with a look of confusion on his face. The snake gave a look that Harry thought meant to be a wink—but that couldn’t be right...snake’s didn’t have eyelids...but somehow the look seemed to be communicated.

Harry stared back at the snake. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly: "I get that all the time.”

"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it:

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?" Harry asked, his eyes looking from the sign back to the snake. The boa constrictor then jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on:

This specimen was bred in the zoo.

"Oh, I see—so you've never been to Brazil?" Harry had asked.

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump. It had come from Piers.

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could after hearing the shouts from his friend. "Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs.

Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened—one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror. The screams had echoed throughout the exhibit.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. It hadn’t shattered—it wasn’t a case of their lackadaisical nature breaking things they had no business touching...it was just gone. It was as if it had never existed there in the first place.

The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house had come to the exhibit upon hearing the screams of the two boys, but as soon as they saw the slithering figure approaching them they had screamed in unison and started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice had said, "Brazil, here I come...Thanksss." It had been a fluttering thought, but one he couldn’t quite let go of.

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. "But the glass," he kept saying. "Where did the glass go?"

Later, when the chaos had subsided and the boys were gathered up, the zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over again for the faulty glass in the reptile exhibit—and the danger it had put the children into. At this point, Piers and Dudley were both talking nonsense about how they saw the snake move to kill them—each of them telling wildly different tales of the snake’s supposed ferocity.

“I swear it moved just round my leg like it was looking to kill!” Dudley had screamed.

As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car, Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten into his side, while Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?"

This had been just what Uncle Vernon had been waiting for without knowing it—of course it had led back to Harry. That was his greatest argument for trying (and failing) to find someone to unload the boy onto, and now look at what mess he had caused.

It didn’t matter that there wasn’t anyway to conceivably prove Harry had been behind any of it, but Uncle Vernon was anything but conceivable to him. The mere mention by Dudley and suddenly Uncle Vernon was wholly convinced he was responsible—nay—that he had planned the whole thing.

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. His face lit up in a new shade of red that Harry hadn’t seen in quite some time. It made a vein pop in his forehead—that signified that this wasn’t something Harry was going to be able to get out of so easily. His uncle had managed to get a few words out in-between his frustrated sounds trying to escape his mouth. "Go—cupboard—stay—no meals," before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy. He saw that she was headed to the good cabinet—it had been where all of their fancy drinks had been stored. That must have been an emergency reserve in case of his Uncle Vernon falling to a state of manic anger.

If only there were some drink I could have right now to block all this out and just...disappear to it all. Avoid the yelling. Avoid the anger.

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food. The helplessness with the time had been one of the worst parts—it had made his time in darkness feel so much longer—like he were floating away in some void. As if he were forgotten to all but his own senses, and even those were fading slowly.

Was it slowly? He hadn’t an idea of what kind of time had been passing. Had any? Surely...

He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember being in the car when his parents had died, but his Aunt Petunia would not let him forget that he had barely survived.. He had heard her whisper under her breath that she thought he should have gone with them—that perhaps at least the whole ruddy thing could be done.

Harry hadn’t known how to come to terms with his life—and that of his parents could be compared to some ruddy thing. Ruddy it was, but that was because they made it that way.

Of course, they hadn’t been the one to crash the car, but sometimes it just felt easier blaming his Aunt and Uncle. As if combining all of his woes into one singular entity could mount his problems on the wall—like a wall he could overcome, instead of several unconnected struggles pinning him down.

Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long hours in his cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though he couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. The best he could guess was that maybe somehow a traffic light was involved. Had one fallen on his parents’ car? He didn’t think it was overly likely, but he couldn’t count it out of the equation. They looked much smaller than they actually were—that was something he had overheard on the news one day.

People had been nearly hurt by one that had been knocked down in Little Whinging—the picture they had shown on the television showed that it was almost as tall as the people trying to pick it up. It probably couldn’t fully wreck a car, but if they had been driving when it happened to come down?

Anything was possible.

He couldn't remember his parents at all. Their faces, their voices, the warmth of their embrace—all were shrouded in the murky depths of oblivion, obscured by the passage of time and the deliberate silence of those who raised him. His aunt and uncle, guardians by blood but strangers in every sense of the word, maintained a strict policy of silence regarding his parents, their lips sealed tight against any mention of the past.

In the suffocating confines of Privet Drive, Harry was starved of any connection to his heritage, his identity reduced to a mere footnote in the Dursleys' narrative of normalcy and conformity. They spoke of his parents in hushed tones, their words dripping with disdain and contempt, as if the mere mention of their names were a stain upon their pristine existence. Behind closed doors, the whispers grew louder, morphing into cruel taunts and bitter recriminations, a symphony of degradation and insult that echoed through the hollow corridors of Harry's childhood.

And yet, amidst the pervasive silence and the venomous whispers, Harry clung to the faintest glimmer of hope, a fleeting memory of love and belonging that refused to be extinguished. In the depths of his soul, he knew that somewhere out there, his parents existed not as mere shadows of the past, but as beacons of light guiding him through the darkness.

Harry had known his aunt and uncle hadn’t liked his parents—for what reason he had no idea—but clearly their disdain had spilled over to him. They had disliked Harry ever since he could remember. I don’t like that. I don’t understand it either, and it’s that what bothers me the most.

That really was the worst part of it all—he didn’t know a thing other than what odds and ends he could pick up, and of course he was forbidden to ask questions, so he was constantly running off of speculation and never able to confirm a thing about his hunches. There weren’t even any photographs of his parents in the house.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, as if it were some total mistake that he had been brought to Number Four, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. It was a hard thing to come to terms with—that life could simply be this way.

On lighter feelings, sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything.

A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look. There was just something so odd about the strange colored cloaks they all tended to wear. If he had seen them for long enough he would have said there was something whimsical about them—something that dragged his attention toward it that begged for further investigation.

At school, Harry found himself utterly alone, a solitary figure amidst the bustling corridors and crowded classrooms of Hogwarts. While his fellow students chatted and laughed with friends, Harry remained on the outskirts, a ghostly presence overshadowed by the specter of his cousin Dudley's gang. It was common knowledge among the student body that Dudley's cronies harbored a vehement disdain for the peculiar and bespectacled Harry Potter, clad in his ill-fitting garments and sporting his signature broken glasses.

In the merciless hierarchy of schoolyard politics, nobody dared to defy Dudley's gang, for to do so was to court certain disaster. Those who dared to speak out or show even the faintest hint of sympathy towards Harry risked becoming the gang's next target, subjected to their merciless taunts and relentless torment. The unspoken rule of survival was clear: it was safer to blend into the background, to avoid drawing attention to oneself, than to risk the wrath of Dudley and his cohorts.

For Harry, this isolation was a heavy burden to bear, a constant reminder of his status as an outsider in a world that seemed determined to reject him at every turn. Day after day, he navigated the treacherous waters of school life with a heavy heart and a sense of resignation, knowing that he was condemned to walk the halls alone, a pariah in the eyes of his peers.