Chapter 1
Sirius had once told Harry grief was colorful. When he thought of his father and mother, he could see flashes of red, gold, green, and brown.
A younger Harry had asked him if those colors were drained now that they were gone. Sirius had sounded wistful when he responded with what was near a whisper.
“Oh no, Harry. When I look around, it’s as if they are the most vibrant colors of them all.”
Sat in a flower bed outside number four, Harry understood even less.
June had been bleak and silent. Owls returned unopened, and the occasional Daily Prophet he’d gotten his hands on was all but blank. Sometimes he wondered if he’d imagined it. But the image of beautiful, kind Cedric Diggory’s frozen face, crossing his mind not irregularly, erased any inkling of that thought.
Diggory was yellows and purples, pinks and blues. And no, the colors hadn't slipped from existence as Harry had expected them to. Rather, it was the grays. More evident than ever he saw pale shades of gray everywhere.
This specific day had been no different.
Harry was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers.
It was July 31st, 1995, and for the first time in many years, there were no letters from Ron and Hermione. Not from Sirius, who’d sent him a horde of sweets and trinkets last year, and not from Professor Lupin—Remus, as he’d insisted—who sent him a kind letter wishing him well and a lovely moving picture of a much younger Remus and his mum.
Hours passed as Harry waited for…Well he wasn't quite sure but he still laid; he exhaled heavier and heavier.
The sun had set. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had stopped bothering to look for him. His random excursions had become common as his frustration grew. Deeper into the summer Harry’s nails had got shorter as he chewed on them, his palms drier, beginning to crack as he stopped minding the dirt that collected under his nails. He frequented this flower bed.
Drip drop.
Harry’s eyes fluttered open. Rain. Hm. He’d always enjoyed the rain. Eyes open, Harry saw the day was over. Clouds brewed in the otherwise dark sky, the only light being the nearby lamppost.
His birthday was over. He sighed, closing his eyes again.
Pitter patter.
The rain grew heavier, soaking him. The cool washed over him, taking the grime with it.
Harry decided then. He was leaving Privet Drive.