Balance
Returning to the Leaky Cauldron was a relief. It was a link to the wizarding world, a place that had the potential to get him out of his relative’s house. Now, running away doesn’t seem like a pipe dream. Not when there’s another world for him to escape to.
Harry always knew that he was going to run away. He just hadn’t known when. Living with the Dursleys was a death sentence, you see. They are oh so cruel and intolerant of anything different. Maybe things would have been different in another life where Dudley was a wizard. It seems unlikely though, even in another life because Petunia is filled with anger. His aunt Petunia holds so much anger in her bones to see the wizarding world with anything but contempt, no matter the world. (She will always be jealous of what her sister had while hating the world that killed her sister. Love is a bitter two-edged sword.)
He can’t entirely blame her, not when this magical world had ripped her only sister away. They once had been close, inseparable. That’s what his mother’s journal, hidden in the attic, had taught him. It’s why ‘learning’ of the wizarding world wasn’t as surprising as some may have assumed.
Her journal was a gift, a snapshot of the past he would forever treasure. It provided a look into her past and the life she lived with Petunia and how once upon a time, she wrote a letter to Dumbledore asking to come to Hogwarts. The denial brought bitter, dark jealousy that had never faded. It’s why he couldn’t hate her, not entirely. He would leave and never look back. It wasn’t worth it. He’d much rather leave it all behind.
The wizarding world, the inheritance left for him, was the key to that. It opened more possibilities for the future than he had expected. Initially, when planning to run away, Harry had hoped to live on the streets in poverty until he was of age. Learning of his small fortune changed everything. At last, he could begin to have a happily ever after.
For so long, it seemed like a mirage in an unended desert, an unattainable future where he was destined to be nothing, just as the Dursleys claimed his parents to be. Now freedom was in sight, in his grasp.
It was easy to enter the wizarding world again. The walk was long, but slipping back in quickly without being noticed was easy. All it took was a little disguise, a little magic. His blood test with the goblins revealed his true appearance, which relieved him to no end. After all, the apparent resemblance to James Potter and the scar on his forehead made him all too recognizable. He doesn’t want that attention, not when all he’s ever wanted to be is himself. Harry wants to be ‘just Harry,’ not a freak, boy, savior, or anything else. Finally, he can be himself.
Being in the wizarding world means freedom. It’s a relief, the potential to escape the past. Unfortunately, the greatest place of freedom and anonymity lies in a different location than the brightly lit diagonally. It is there, in Melodian lane, that he has found a home. It’s a nice district where he is safe yet goes unquestioned. That, he supposes, is the most crucial part. As an eleven-year-old child who has yet to find a proper guardian, it is too risky to face scrutiny. He cannot risk his freedom being taken away or, even worse, being sent back to the Dursleys. They are a death sentence, and he would kill himself before returning.
Harry hums as he walks, hands tracing the walls of nearby buildings. He has always been tactile, relying on any sense to guide him. That’s what living in constant darkness did. It required the strengthening of other senses to compensate for that which is lost. There’s a reason he can hear as well as he can.
The tug in his navel and small whispers pull him away from what might be considered safe. Something in Knockturn Alley calls to him, whispers that he must come come come come. Call him naive, call him stupid, but he follows. Diagon Alley passes through quickly, the brightness fading just as soon as it comes. Neither does it stop once he reaches Melodian Alley. The pull leads to Knockturn Alley, and Harry does not resist.
He can’t bear to, not when the voice calls so sweetly and the pull so gentle. The feeling is the opposite of the Dursleys- softness replacing bitter hurt. He doesn’t worry, not when there isn’t anyone there that could harm him. His hair is far too red, too similar to blood to mess with. Blood, you see, is a sign of a predator. Blood screams, ‘look at me, ‘I can hurt,’ ‘I will kill.’ No one will harm him with hair the color of blood and the eyes of the killing curse. Both are signs of death; only one other wizard has worn those colors.
Voldemort, too, yielded these colors, ruby red eyes paired with violent (but beautiful) green curses. It’s something he knows, even if he doesn’t know how. From what he’s learned so far and from what he can remember from that night, they both share drastic features: vivid eyes coupled with pale skin and the darkest hair. Those red eyes, riddled with something dark, symbolize death. It’s no wonder, then, why his favorite curse is the killing curse.
Sometimes, he thinks such a curse is mercy, a painless death compared to all others. Isn’t it, though?
Harry finds himself in front of an old decrypt store. Granted, most stores in Knockturn Alley look rather lackluster, but there is something different about this store. It is reminiscent of Ollivander’s shop, tinged with a layer of darkness and grief.
The stones it is built with have faded, dark, firm gray bleached by the sun. Even so, it has grown darker, stained by the alley in which it was born. It’s quite the problem: The stones fade in the sun only to be dirtied in tragedy.
It is the start of another tragedy, a painful one with an ending that never changes.
The windows, too, have begun to darken. Soot, dark, and thin, it has already started to line the glass; time has made it strong and resilient.
It is elegant despite its age. The stones are old and worn with time. Still, there is something timeless about the building.
“Why am I here?”
The door opened before him, the scent of amber, pine trees, and moss wafting outside. It was an interesting smell, woody and sharp to suffocation. Harry, though, didn’t find it suffocating. It was more comforting, for it reminded him of the cupboard he grew up in.
“Hello, child,” an older woman greeted. Her visage seemed to change constantly. One moment, she was young with blonde hair and green eyes. The next, her hair was black, and her skin was riddled with wrinkles and laugh lines. Her hair turned black, brown, blonde, brown, red, and everything in between. Her eyes changed too, colors flickering too fast to be natural, matching the pace at which her body grew old and then young again.
“Why am I here?” He hummed, tilting his head to the side. “I felt…” Harry hesitated.
There was something about this place that felt safe, welcoming even. That’s the reason why he let himself continue. “There was a magic that led me here.”
“Magic led you here, you say?” Keen eyes studied him, settling on brown.
“It has always walked with me.” Harry clenched his fists tightly, palms beginning to bleed. “I breathe it as it breathes me.”
“You have lived quite the life.” She leaned forward against the cabinet.
He snorted. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do.”
It seemed as if she was peering into his very being. The woman’s eyes were far too knowing, old and young simultaneously. Perhaps Aunt Petunia wasn’t wrong when she said that sometimes old souls are born in young bodies.
“Do you know why I’m here?” He asked again, hands unclenching. Outside his notice, the bloody marks healed, leaving nothing with pink lines of pressure.
“Of course. I know why everyone is here.” She left the counter, standing in front of him. “You have come for what few come for: balance and a promise of peace.”
“If you know who I am, you know it’s not an option.” At that moment, it felt like the world's weight was on his shoulders- the expectations of the wizarding world crowning his head with thorns.
“It is, though,” she breathed, pulling him forward. “Feel the cores, feel what calls to you- to your magic.”
Harry stumbled along, unable to make himself stop.
“Find what brings peace to your magic.”
He shuddered as the feeling of magic overwhelmed him. Thestral hair, Unicorn hair, and Dragon heartstring flew to him, hovering in front of him.
“You are a very powerful wizard. You have quite the fate on your hands. I can see that here.” She mused.
“What do they mean?” He asked after a moment, reaching out to them
The woman quickly slapped his hands away, though her touch was gentle.
“They are volatile and powerful, just like you.” She offered a small, sad smile. “The thestral hair speaks of someone who has seen death and known it intimately. It is a promise of peace only given in death. The unicorn tail hair, when given freely, is full of magical energy that makes it both dependable and clean. Like the creature, it is gentle and light, clinging to innocence and childhood nativity. On the other hand, the Dragon heartstring is possessive and prone to dark magic. While dark, it is not evil, simply powerful and loyal to a fault.”
The description hit relatively close to home. They were indeed cores that matched him, creating a picture of his magic and heart.
“They are volatile, and it wouldn’t do for you to be injured.” Her voice was not unkind, simply like a stern teacher that cares.
He nodded hesitantly, pausing for a moment. “What comes next?”
“You pick a wood.” Her teeth were sharp, sharklike at that moment. “Find the one that soothes and balances the hurt in your heart.
With a shaky nod, he ran his hand along the row of wood bases that had yet to be used. It took much longer to find the best wood, none of them sparking the exact feeling the cores had. At last, the yew wood called to him, as did the hawthorn wood.
“Is it strange to have three cores and two types of wood?” Harry asked as both bases were taken to the woman.
She inclined her head as she worked, binding the materials together. “It’s not common but not entirely rare.”
He laughed, the noise bitter. “I’ve never been normal; why should now be any different?”
“It’s not bad to be different,” the woman offered, settling on the visage of a young woman.
“I don’t wanna be different.” His lips wobbled, unable to stop the trembling that came with unending grief. “I just want to be Harry.”
“That’s not impossible,” she said. “It’ll take time, though.”
Harry bowed his head, hugging himself tightly. “I wish it didn’t.”
She cradled his cheek, lifting his chin to meet his eyes. This time her eyes were green, matching his. “It won’t take long,” she promised.
“I’m so tired of being hurt,” he whispered, eyes dewy in the dim light.
“It won’t be long,” she whispered in return, the woman pressing a bundle into his hands. “Hold on a little longer.”
His face crumpled, the grief hitting him all at once. “I want my mom.”
“I know, baby, I know.” She kissed his forehead, red hair falling like a halo around them.
For a minute, he could pretend she was his mother. She looked like her, or at least she did right now. It was pale skin that cradled his face, red hair falling around her head and bright green eyes that matched his.
"You'll be alright."
It would be easy to get lost in the soft, caring look she provided. Still, it was a visage that he couldn't hold onto forever. So he stepped back, eyes squeezed shut. It was the smart thing to do- to say goodbye on his terms.
"Goodbye darling," came the soft murmur.
He looked up with watering eyes, sniffling as she pressed one last kiss to his forehead. "Goodbye."
With that, he fled, leaving a snapshot of peace behind.