Existence
Saudade (Portuguese): A deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for someone or something that one loves, while knowing that it may never return.
"I wish I was a little bit stronger, I wish I was a little bit older" — "Boys Don't Cry" by The Cure
Existence is a cruel and unusual thing, for the human race is nothing but evil incarnate.
Harry Potter had never understood why he was treated the way he was—a child treated as the devil himself, crawling out of the fiery pits of hell simply for existing on an Earth he never asked to be plopped in and never wished to belong to in the first place. Harry Potter, a boy of almost eleven years old, sat in the cramped cupboard under the staircase of the Dursley residence, where he had grown up with his Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and dreadful cousin Dudley at 4 Privet Drive, a small town Harry despised with all his heart. It was a place that carried with it a sense of suffocation—small, isolated, and unyielding, much like the cupboard he called home.
The cupboard was small—barely enough space for him to stretch his legs fully. The walls seemed to close in on him as if they were intentionally designed to cage him. He had made reluctant friends with the spiders he’d see crawling around, spinning their delicate webs in the corners. At first, he had watched them with a sense of childish wonder, fascinated by their silent work, but over time, that wonder had dulled into apathy. Their webs had become just another part of the endless dreariness of his life. He played with his toy soldier, the little plastic figure a world of imagination in a world that offered none, quietly mumbling to himself as young boys do, though he had no friends to share his playtime with—only the imaginary image of one, a figment of his loneliness that he could talk to and pretend was real.
The lenses of his glasses were perpetually smudged, coated in dust and grime that seemed to gather no matter how many times he wiped them, the result of the constant filth in the cupboard that no amount of scrubbing could erase. His glasses—round, thick-framed—seemed to sit unevenly on his nose, always askew as if they were a reminder of how out of place he truly was. His pajamas, a faded pair of thin striped cotton, hung off his malnourished frame like a tent, far too large for his slender body, their hems frayed and worn from use. They were Dudley’s hand-me-downs, the garments of a child who was allowed to grow while Harry, neglected and ignored, had to make do. His aunt and uncle hadn’t cared enough to buy him new clothes, or even to provide him with a proper bed. Instead, he had the cupboard—a dark, cold, claustrophobic box that he was locked inside at night, only to be released each morning when Petunia would unlock the padlock to let him out and begin his daily chores. The padlock was a constant reminder of his status—kept behind a literal barrier, as if he were a creature to be contained.
The only sign of morning came through the small cracks in the cupboard door—thin beams of light, almost ghostly, piercing through the wooden slats. It was a meager offering, not enough to bring warmth, just enough to remind him that the world outside was functioning while he was locked away in the dark. Otherwise, he was left in the suffocating darkness with his own thoughts, and the quiet, barbaric emotions that churned within him. A rage, silent and unspoken, brewed in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at him. He didn’t know where it came from, but he felt it—a primal force that he couldn’t quell, a fire that threatened to consume him if only he knew how to control it.
He heard the sound of Petunia’s heels clicking down the stairs above his head. The sharp, rhythmic noise echoed through the wooden floors, each step like a drumbeat marking his impending release. He heard the key jingle, the sound of metal scraping against metal, and then the distinct click of the padlock turning. His green eyes, tired and hollow, burned at the sight of the light of day as it flooded in through the door, temporarily blinding him. He winced and squinted, the harsh light an unwelcome visitor after the darkness of the cupboard.
“Get out, freak,” Petunia sneered at him, her voice dripping with disdain. She was always so quick to remind him of his place, as though it were the only truth she knew.
“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry replied mechanically, his voice flat, hollow—a conditioned response, an automatic reflex. There was no feeling in it, no emotion. His joints popped, his muscles stiff from the lack of movement, and his bones cracked like old wood as he crawled out of the cupboard. It was a routine—one he had grown all too familiar with. The cold, hard floor was a constant in his life, and the cupboard door was just a portal between two places of pain: the darkness and the light, both just as suffocating.
When he was younger, he had once called Petunia “Mum” in a moment of desperate need for comfort, but it had led to nothing but a harsh, enraged beating. He had learned quickly never to show weakness. Still, he would never forget the look in her eyes that day, a fleeting glimpse of something softer—something like sorrow. It was a look that flickered in her pupils for a moment, as though the human part of her had momentarily broken through the walls she had built. There had been so much pain, so much anger, buried deep inside her, but Harry had been too young to understand it. It was a look he would carry with him, lingering in his mind as a ghost of what could have been.
“My sweet Dudders wanted sausage this morning. Don’t burn them like last time, do you understand?” Petunia’s voice rang with a cheery tone, the fake sweetness of it making Harry’s skin crawl. It was her precious baby boy’s birthday, and she had to make sure everything was perfect. Her words didn’t match the coldness in her eyes, but Harry had long learned not to expect consistency from her. Her mood could change with the wind—always shifting, always self-centered.
Harry stood up a bit too fast, his joints protesting with a painful crack as he made his way into the kitchen. His stomach growled in protest, a deep, rumbling sound that only served to highlight how empty and hollow it was. The hunger gnawed at him, constant and relentless, a companion he had known too well. His body was accustomed to the punishment, each bruise, each scrape, each ache now familiar, a painful signature of his existence. He had earned more bruises than he could count, each one a story of neglect and abuse. The most recent one, a burn from a grease accident inflicted on him by Vernon when he had burned the sausages last time, still lingered on his arm. The burn had taken almost two full weeks to heal, leaving his skin tender and raw for much longer. Even now, it wasn’t completely healed—it had faded into a red spot, a scar of sorts, slightly leathery and thick to the touch, but not completely noticeable unless someone was looking for it. It wasn’t horrific—just another mark on the body that had borne too many.
Above the stove, a cross hung, its presence oppressive and unsettling, casting a shadow across the entire kitchen. The cross looked out of place—an unsettling piece of decoration, more akin to a grotesque art piece that belonged in some dark biblical painting or tragic Renaissance portrait. It seemed to mock him, an ironic and sick reminder of what his life had become, a twisted reflection of the fantasies people liked to immerse themselves in. It wasn’t a symbol of faith or protection—it was a stark reminder of how little anyone cared for Harry, how deeply he was unwanted in this house.
He cooked the sausage, the sizzle of the meat in the pan filling the silence that otherwise reigned in the house. The sound was too loud, too sharp, cutting through the tension in the air. It reminded him of a battlefield, where he stood on the sidelines, waiting to be acknowledged. He could hear the loud thumping of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs—elephant-like in their weight and force. Harry had learned to tell the difference between the steps of Vernon and Dudley. Dudley, though a hefty child, was still about one hundred pounds lighter than Vernon, but Harry could hear the difference in the rhythm and strength of their footsteps. Dudley’s were more chaotic, heavier from indulgence, while Vernon’s were methodical, deliberate. But as much as they fed Dudley, Harry wouldn't be surprised if, by next summer, Dudley’s weight doubled—fed like a prize animal, fattened for some unknown feast.
The first thing Harry heard was Dudley whining, his voice shrill and demanding. "I’m starving! Where’s my food?" he whined, a tone of entitlement coating his every word. Petunia immediately cooed at her "sweet little boy," smoothing his hair with false affection. It made Harry sick to watch, but he had long since learned not to show it. The empty feeling in Harry’s stomach deepened, a festering ache that gnawed at him from the inside out. It wasn’t hunger that caused it—it was something darker. The years of neglect had made this emptiness part of him, and it had only grown deeper with each passing day.
Harry often wondered what would happen if he simply disappeared one day. If he never came back from the chores or the garden, if he just vanished into the world outside. Would anyone even notice? Would they care? He doubted it. The thought of it made his chest feel tight, a strange mixture of longing and apathy. They wouldn’t care, not really. Not in the way a family should care for a child. He wasn’t worth the effort, wasn’t worth the time. Not to them. It didn’t matter—nothing really did.
The house smelled of coffee and sausage, the savory scent filling the air as he finished preparing the meal. The smell lingered in his nose, a teasing reminder of what he couldn’t have. Harry wasn’t allowed to touch the food after he had made it. He simply placed it on the table for his relatives to devour greedily, a feast that he had no part in. He watched them as they dug in, stuffing their faces without a second thought. The way they ate—like they had never known what it was like to be hungry—filled him with a bitterness that made his stomach churn. The scraps they left for him were the leftovers of their gluttony, barely enough to fill the pit in his stomach. It felt like a dog begging for scraps, the food offered to him as though he were some kind of animal. The dog food they gave to real dogs was bland and hard, but at least it was filling. Harry’s scraps were just as bland, but they didn’t fill him. It wasn’t nourishment—it was a reminder of how little he mattered.
It felt as pathetic as it was. Eating two pieces of sausage was all he would get—a meager portion to sustain him for the hours ahead. It had to last until he finished the chores, until he was forced to do whatever humiliating task they had in store for him that day. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could get, and he learned long ago that it was pointless to ask for more.
Harry was about to step outside to tend to Petunia’s garden when he was abruptly stopped by her voice. “Go wash your face, you’re going to the zoo with us,” she said, her tone forced and strained. There was no warmth in her words, no hint of affection. She seemed almost reluctant at the notion of having him accompany them on Dudley’s birthday trip. Harry knew why—neighbors gossiped, and Petunia was obsessed with her image. She wanted to parade Harry around, just to show the neighbors that they were a 'normal' family. In reality, they didn’t care about him—no one did—but Petunia cared deeply about what others thought of her. Harry knew it was all for show, a performance to make themselves seem loving and well-adjusted. Not that anyone cared to look too closely at him; they were all too busy focusing on Dudley, their precious golden child.
Without a word, Harry quickly ran upstairs to the bathroom. He relieved himself, then washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face. The chill was like a slap of reality, grounding him in the dullness of his life. His reflection was one he had long since grown tired of—a face he didn’t fully recognize, one that always seemed a bit too thin, too sharp around the edges.
His hair, as always, was a tangled mess—a rat’s nest of dark, thick curls that refused to be tamed. It framed his face like some sort of wild, untouchable thing, and it had the strange effect of almost hiding the scar on his forehead, though it wasn’t enough to fully cover it. Harry’s fingers traced over his soft cheeks, still holding onto a slight roundness from childhood, a contrast to the rest of his body, which had grown thin from neglect. He picked at his plush lips for a moment and adjusted his glasses, which always seemed too large for his face, before rushing back downstairs. He grabbed some of Dudley’s hand-me-down clothes, the only things he had to wear, and changed quickly.
The ride to the zoo was uneventful, aside from the constant barrage of insults and mockery. Vernon threw curse words at Harry, his face contorted with anger, while Dudley laughed at his expense, his mocking voice a constant reminder of how worthless Harry felt. Petunia lectured him about keeping his "freakish nature" hidden, her voice dripping with disdain. To them, he was nothing more than a nuisance, a burden that needed to be contained, like an undesirable pet. Harry had grown used to it—he had learned to take the verbal abuse just as easily as the physical punishment. It was all the same to him.
Once they arrived at the zoo, Dudley immediately ran off, banging on the glass of the exhibits, making the animals uneasy and agitated. Harry, however, wandered off by himself, drawn to the quiet of one of the enclosures. It was there that he saw her—the snake. She lay there, large and elegant, her scales shimmering in the low light. Harry felt a strange connection to her, something he couldn’t explain, but it felt different, more significant than anything he had ever felt before. She was agitated, restless, and Harry felt a flicker of empathy for her.
He tilted his head, studying the creature with a mixture of curiosity and sorrow. “I’m sorry~” Harry muttered softly, almost to himself. His words were slurred, a little strange, but they seemed to reach the snake nonetheless. To his shock, the snake's head tilted in response, her eyes locking with his.
“A speaker~” the snake hissed, her voice smooth and almost musical, sending a shiver down Harry's spine. Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t expected the snake to speak back, and it took a moment for him to find his voice.
“Y...you’re talking to me, how is that possible?~” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The snake slithered closer to the glass, her movements graceful and fluid. “You’d be surprised at just what is possible, little speaker~” she responded, her voice soft, almost gentle, as though speaking to a hatchling. Harry could hear the wisdom in her voice, something ancient and knowing.
Before Harry could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps interrupted the moment. Dudley appeared, his hands pounding on the glass with loud thumps. The snake recoiled slightly, irritated. Petunia’s voice soon followed, sharp and screeching as she berated Harry for “talking to that thing.” Vernon joined in, his loud, guttural laughter filling the air. “Insufferable!” he bellowed, clearly pleased with himself. The snake’s agitation grew, her hissing growing louder, more urgent.
“Little speaker, would you be a dear and set me free?~” the snake requested, her voice filled with a strange desperation.
“How do I do that?~” Harry asked, unsure of what to do.
Without thinking, Harry pressed his hand against the glass, and to his shock, the glass gave way with a strange, audible pop, like a bubble bursting. Dudley screamed as he tumbled into the enclosure, panic spreading across his face. Petunia squealed, and Vernon shouted for someone to help him. In the chaos, Harry was yanked roughly by the scruff of his hair, his scalp burning with the force of it as Vernon dragged him away. The snake, now freed from the glass, slithered away quickly, disappearing into the shadows.
The drive home was tense and silent, the air thick with anger. Vernon’s face was a deep shade of crimson as he yelled at Harry for “causing trouble” and “bringing embarrassment to the family.” Harry was locked back into his cupboard, the door slamming shut with a finality that seemed to echo through the house.
But that night—that night was different. It was then that the letters arrived. The ones that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon refused to let him read, the ones they burned in the fireplace in a frantic attempt to rid themselves of the truth. But no matter how much they tried to destroy them, the letters kept coming—swarming in from every direction, delivered by owls.
In a final, desperate attempt to escape the barrage of letters, Vernon took the family to a small, isolated island, hoping that the letters would stop. Harry sat on the cold, damp dirt floor of the tower they were locked in, the chill of the night air biting at his skin. As midnight struck, he blew a small breath into the dirt, marking the moment. He was officially eleven years old now, and everything was about to change.
The door to the tower swung open with a creak, and standing in the doorway was a large, burly man with a long, wild beard. His presence was imposing, and his eyes twinkled with something Harry couldn't quite place.
And then, the words came—four words that would change the course of Harry’s life forever.
“You’re a wizard, Harry.”
"The truth is not always beautiful, nor are beautiful words the truth." – The Last Unicorn