Shelter from the storm
The rain poured down in thick sheets, drenching Harry in seconds. The cold bit into his skin as he stood on the doorstep, shivering uncontrollably. It wasn’t the first time he’d been thrown out, but this time felt different. He didn’t know the town, didn’t know where to hide from the rain. With no other option, he began to wander, his small feet carrying him down the street.
It didn’t take long for Harry to find himself on the beach. The steady, rhythmic crashing of the waves seemed to call to him, cutting through the noise of the downpour. The rain was relentless, pouring down in sheets, soaking his clothes and dripping off his hair, but something about the sound of the sea kept pulling him closer. The forest surrounding him was dark and thick, the branches sagging under the weight of the rain, but Harry hardly noticed as he made his way through it. He followed a narrow, overgrown stone path that wound its way toward the shore, the cold rainwater mixing with the soft moss beneath his bare feet.
The path eventually led to a set of rocky, uneven stairs. The stone was slick, and Harry had to be careful as he navigated them, one hand gripping the wet rail while his feet slipped and skidded against the mossy rocks. Stinging nettles poked out from the edges of the steps, their sharp tips brushing against his ankles as he passed. His feet were sore, throbbing from the cold and the long walk, but despite the discomfort, something urged him forward. It wasn’t a conscious decision anymore, there was a pull, a deep instinct that he couldn’t ignore, guiding him down to the beach below.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Harry reached the bottom. The stone gave way to soft, wet sand. He sighed in relief as his feet sank into it, the texture a welcome change from the sharp rocks and nettles above. The beach was dimly lit, and the rain continued to pour down, cold and unforgiving. The sky was a dark mass of thick clouds, heavy and low, with only the faintest sliver of moonlight peeking through. The beach itself was empty and dreary, with dark, sluggish waves rolling in from the sea.
Despite the rain, Harry felt something unusual in the air, something that made his skin tingle. The sand beneath his feet was warm, almost impossibly so given the cold night and the torrential rain. It radiated a kind of heat that didn’t match the stormy weather, and as Harry walked across the beach, he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him, even as the rain soaked him to the bone.
It wasn’t long before Harry found himself drawn not just to the waves, but to something else. Someone else.
At first, Harry hadn’t noticed the figure in the distance, his mind lost in the rhythmic crashing of the waves and the relentless downpour that soaked him to his very bones. He had been wandering, aimless, his small form huddled against the cold, not knowing where to go or what to do, only driven by the need to find shelter. But then, just at the edge of his vision, something shifted. To his left, seated on a worn log and staring out toward the stormy sea, was a man.
The closer Harry came, the clearer the man became through the rain-soaked gloom. There was something deeply unsettling about him. His long, dark hair clung to his face in tangled, matted strands, drenched from the rain that had been pouring for hours. His clothes were worn and threadbare, clinging to his thin, shaking frame as if they had once been fine but had long since surrendered to time and neglect. Everything about the man seemed fragile, broken, as though the weight of the world pressed down on him, and he had long since given up fighting it.
It was when Harry was close enough to see the man’s face that his breath caught in his throat. The man’s eyes were open, staring unseeingly out at the sea, but they were empty, hollow, like windows into a soul that had seen too much. The kind of emptiness that came from bearing the unbearable, witnessing things no one should ever have to witness. It sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, but not because he was afraid. No, what he felt was something else, something deeper, a kind of sorrow he couldn’t name.
Then, Harry’s gaze dropped to the man’s hands, and what he saw made his stomach turn. One of the man’s hands, resting limply on his knee, was badly burned. The skin was red, raw, blistered as though the injury was fresh, the pain still fresh. Yet the man didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to acknowledge the pain at all, as if the agony had become so much a part of him that it no longer registered. It wasn’t the burn itself that startled Harry, but the way the man carried it, the way he held his injured hand without a single wince, as though he had lived with such pain for so long that it hardly mattered anymore.
Even though the man hadn’t yet acknowledged him, Harry felt drawn to him. This man was different, there was something about him, something both powerful and tragic. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets, soaking them both, but Harry felt a strange pull, an invisible thread connecting them. The man’s presence was magnetic in its sadness, and Harry, despite his young age and the misery he had known, could sense a shared loneliness between them.
Harry swallowed hard and took the final steps forward, standing just inches away now. The man still didn’t move, didn’t speak. He continued staring out at the stormy horizon, lost in whatever thoughts haunted him. For a moment, Harry hesitated. The man seemed so distant, so untouchable, but at the same time, he was the first-person Harry had come across who looked as lost and out of place as he felt.
Slowly, Harry lowered himself onto the log beside the man. The wood was cold and slick with rain, and the storm howled around them, but somehow, sitting here beside this stranger, Harry felt more at ease than he ever had. The man, soaked through and unmoving, radiated a strange, calming presence. And despite the tremor in the man’s limbs, despite the sorrow in his eyes and the pain etched into his face, Harry felt safer next to him than he ever had in the Dursleys' house.
The man still didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to. For the first time in his short life, Harry felt like he wasn’t alone in his suffering. Here, sitting in the pouring rain beside this broken, wounded figure, Harry found something he didn’t know he had been searching for. Someone who understood, even without words, the weight of feeling forgotten and unwanted.
Harry glanced down at his own hand as he sat beside the man. It was a sight he was used to by now but one that still made his heart clench with a dull, unspoken ache. A couple of weeks ago, Uncle Vernon had been furious, more furious than usual. Harry had been cooking breakfast, the smell of sizzling bacon filling the kitchen. He had tried his hardest to do everything right, to make sure the bacon was perfectly crisp the way his uncle liked it, but the momentary slip of his small, tired hands had sealed his fate.
The memory flashed behind his eyes as if it had only happened moments ago: the pan tipping slightly, hot grease splattering onto the stovetop. His uncle had stormed into the kitchen, his face purple with rage. Before Harry could apologize, Vernon had grabbed him roughly by the arm and shoved his hand into the scorching pan. The pain had been immediate, searing, white-hot agony that left him gasping. But his uncle hadn’t stopped, not until Harry’s hand was badly burned, the skin blistering and raw from the contact.
No doctor, no bandages, no ointments had followed. Harry had been left to fend for himself, simply covering the wound with a piece of spare cloth he’d found in the cupboard. It wasn’t enough to heal it, not even close, but it was all he had. Now, weeks later, his hand still ached with a dull, throbbing pain that never fully went away. The burn had festered beneath the cloth, the untreated skin raw and red, mirroring the man’s own injury in an eerie way.
Harry’s gaze flickered between his own hand and the man’s. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now it seemed like a strange connection, as though they both carried the same scars, not just physical ones but scars born from suffering, from the cruelty of others. His small, untreated burn was nothing compared to the man’s, yet the pain was shared, and Harry suddenly felt a kinship with this stranger, sitting beside him in the storm.
The man still didn’t look at him, his distant eyes focused on the horizon, but Harry sensed that they were more alike than different. Both scarred, both forgotten, both drowning in a world that didn’t seem to care whether they lived or died.
Instinctively, Harry pressed his injured hand to his chest, the makeshift cloth damp and useless in the rain, but somehow, the presence of the man beside him made the pain feel less sharp, less overwhelming. For the first time in weeks, Harry didn’t feel like he had to carry it alone.
The rain continued to pour, drenching them both, but Harry barely noticed anymore. He didn’t know who this man was, didn’t know why he was here or what kind of life he had led, but in this moment, none of that mattered. What mattered was the silent understanding between them, the shared weight of their burdens, and the strange, inexplicable comfort of simply sitting beside someone who understood what it meant to suffer in silence.
As Harry sat beside the man, his body finally began to relax. The exhaustion that had weighed on him for so long seemed to seep away, carried off by the sound of the waves and the steady rhythm of the rain. Despite the cold, despite the relentless downpour soaking them both, there was an odd sense of warmth emanating from somewhere deep within him. It wasn’t the kind of warmth that came from the sun or a fire, but something different… a warmth that came from the strange, unspoken connection he had found in this lonely, broken man.
The man hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked at Harry, but his presence was enough. For the first time in as long as Harry could remember, he didn’t feel alone. The constant knot of fear and worry in his chest had loosened, and the ache of his unhealed wounds, both physical and emotional, felt distant, like a bad dream slowly fading away.
Harry’s eyelids grew heavy. His small body, usually so tense and alert from years of mistreatment, finally allowed itself to rest. His breathing slowed, his limbs became heavier, and the constant hunger gnawing at his stomach dulled. He barely noticed as his head began to tilt, his cheek resting against the rough fabric of his too-big shirt.
The sound of the waves was like a lullaby, their steady crash against the shore mixed with the gentle patter of the rain on the sand. For the first time since he had been left on the Dursleys' doorstep all those years ago, Harry felt safe. Truly safe. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t understand why sitting next to this silent stranger brought him so much peace, but he wasn’t going to question it. All he knew was that, here, under the stormy sky with the sea in front of him and the mysterious man at his side, he could finally let go.
Slowly, Harry drifted off, his small body curling up against the log, the cold and wetness of the night no longer bothering him. His breath evened out, and his face relaxed, a peaceful expression settling over him that had been missing for far too long. He didn’t dream of Dudley or Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice, or even of Uncle Vernon’s angry face. There were no nightmares tonight, no fear, no pain.
Instead, Harry fell into the best sleep he’d had in his entire young life. There, on the rainy beach beside a man who had seen more than Harry could ever imagine, he found a kind of comfort that had been denied to him for years. For once, he felt like he wasn’t a freak, wasn’t unloved or unwanted. He was just…Harry, not freak, not boy… but Harry.
And in the quiet darkness of sleep, for the first time in years, Harry felt truly at peace.