Finding shelter
When morning finally arrived, the first rays of light breaking through the overcast sky, Harry woke feeling lighter than he had ever felt in his short life. The chill of the damp air and the roughness of the log beneath him were distant thoughts, dulled by the warmth of the best sleep he could remember. For once, there was no aching tension in his muscles, no panic at the thought of breakfast needing to be cooked before his uncle stormed downstairs, and no dread of the next cruel remark or blow from the Dursleys. He had slept without fear.
He blinked a few times, the soft morning light flickering against his eyelids as he stretched. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was, but then the sound of the waves brought everything back. The beach. The rain. The man.
Harry slowly turned his head and looked up at the figure next to him. To his surprise, the man hadn’t moved at all. He still sat on the log, staring out at the sea, unblinking and unmoving as though the night had passed him by entirely. His long, black hair was still tangled and dripping wet, clinging to his face and shoulders. His clothes were soaked through, and though the rain had stopped, his thin frame continued to tremble, as though the cold had taken permanent hold of him.
What caught Harry’s attention, however, was the man’s cloak. At some point during the night, the man had shifted it just enough to drape part of it over Harry, offering him a shield from the rain. It was damp now, but it had kept the worst of the storm off him, leaving Harry far drier than the man himself. The gesture, silent and subtle, stirred something in Harry’s chest. A quiet kindness that he had never known before.
Harry frowned slightly as he looked more closely at the man. The burn on his hand still looked raw, red, and painful, and though the man hadn’t moved much, the constant shaking had only worsened. The man looked worse off than he had the night before, yet he had covered Harry from the rain. The same unblinking, distant look was still etched on his gaunt face, as if the world around him barely registered.
“Are you... alright?” Harry’s voice was small, hesitant, barely a whisper. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to ask, but something about the man’s stillness unnerved him. It was as though the man hadn’t slept, hadn’t even noticed the passing of time. Had he spent the entire night like this?
The man didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, as if the sea held some deep secret he was searching for. His silence felt heavy, like a weight that hung between them. But despite that, Harry didn’t feel rejected. There was something about the man’s presence that made him feel safe, even if the man seemed lost in his own world.
Harry shifted uncomfortably on the log, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the morning chill. He glanced at the man’s hand again, the fresh burn standing out against his pale, trembling skin. Without thinking, Harry raised his own hand, instinctively covering his scarred palm where his uncle had shoved it into the frying pan a few weeks ago. His own burn had gone untreated, aside from a scrap of cloth he’d tied around it, but it still ached and stung when he moved it too much.
He wondered if the man’s burn hurt as badly as his did. Worse, probably, judging by how fresh it looked. Harry bit his lip, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t used to worrying about anyone but himself, and yet, here he was, concerned about this stranger who had taken care of him in the simplest way, offering protection from the rain.
The wind picked up slightly, rustling the damp strands of Harry’s hair and sending a cold gust across the beach. Harry shivered and pulled the cloak tighter around himself, though his thoughts remained on the man beside him.
And then it hit him, hard and fast, like a cold splash of water to the face. He needed to get back to the Dursleys. Panic surged through his veins as he sat up abruptly, heart pounding in his chest. Aunt Petunia hated making breakfast. She hated it even more when Harry wasn’t there to do it for her. If he didn’t hurry back, there’d be hell to pay. His uncle’s red face, Aunt Petunia’s screeching voice, he could already imagine the punishment looming over him.
All the comfort he had felt during the night vanished in an instant. His mind raced, thinking of the ways they would punish him for slacking off after, as they always reminded him, they had so ‘lovingly welcomed’ him into their home. The house, with its pristine walls and perfectly arranged furniture, wasn’t a home at all. It was a cage, one where every misstep brought more suffering. They had taken him in, yes, but only to use him, to belittle him, to remind him of his place.
He couldn’t stay here, no matter how much safer he felt beside this strange man. He had chores to do, meals to make, and floors to scrub before anyone woke up. If he wasn’t back before they did, his uncle would surely have a new set of bruises waiting for him. His aunt would sneer and call him ungrateful. Dudley would mock him, laugh at his pain.
Harry’s hands shook as he stood, the sudden movement making him dizzy. The chill of the morning air hit him again, but it wasn’t the cold that made him tremble. It was fear. Fear of what awaited him if he didn’t hurry back.
Harry tore himself away from the man and ran. His feet pounded the wet sand, the sound of the waves quickly fading as he dashed up the rocky stairs, each step sending sharp pain through his bare soles. The stones dug into his skin, and he winced, but he didn’t stop. He had to get back before they woke up. Before they realized he was gone.
Through the forest he went, the path soft underfoot but his heart heavy with dread. The strange comfort he had felt by the man’s side evaporated with each step he took toward the Dursleys' house. The closer he got, the more his stomach twisted with anxiety. The familiar weight of fear settled on his small shoulders, a reminder of what awaited him if he didn’t do everything just right.
Finally, the house loomed ahead, cold, lifeless, and nothing like a home. He stumbled through the door, panting, his heart still racing. To his surprise, he wasn’t too late. Aunt Petunia was already awake, her sharp eyes narrowing as she noticed him. But she didn’t immediately screech, didn’t raise her hand to strike.
“You’re late,” she hissed, her lips pulling into a thin, disapproving line. “But I’m in a forgiving mood today.” The way she said ‘forgiving’ made Harry’s skin crawl. There was no kindness in her voice, no real forgiveness. It was a warning, a reminder that she could turn on him at any moment.
Harry nodded quickly, not trusting himself to speak. The rain from outside still dripped from his hair and clothes, puddling at his feet, but Aunt Petunia didn’t care about that. Her focus was on what came next.
“Start cooking breakfast,” she demanded, her tone sharp and cold. “Dudley will be up soon, and he’ll be hungry.”
Without another word, Harry rushed to the kitchen, the last remnants of peace from the night slipping away. He knew better than to linger on thoughts of the strange man or the brief comfort he had felt. Here, in the Dursleys' house, comfort didn’t exist. Only survival.
It was a week before Harry found himself back on that desolate beach again.
This time, his return wasn’t from an irresistible pull or a desire for solace, it was because he had nowhere else to go. The Dursleys’ latest outburst had driven him there, his body aching from the abuse, his heart heavy with despair. All he had done was ask for food, politely, as he always did. He hadn’t even raised his voice, but that didn’t matter. Vernon’s temper had exploded like a bomb.
The memory of it was fresh and raw: Vernon’s face, red with rage, veins bulging from his neck as he bellowed at Harry. He had shattered a glass in his hand, sending sharp shards flying through the air. Harry had instinctively shielded his face, but not quickly enough. The glass had cut into his skin, small, jagged pieces embedding themselves into his cheeks and hands as Vernon roughly threw him out of the house.
Now, he walked down that familiar, painful path through the forest, trying not to cry as his face stung with every movement. His glasses, at least, had protected his eyes from the flying glass, but that was small comfort. He could feel the blood dripping down his skin, warm and sticky, mixing with the cold rain that once again poured from the sky.
When he finally reached the beach, he felt a surge of relief, despite the physical pain. The soft sand, the crashing waves. It was all as he remembered. But even more comforting was the presence of the man. He was still there, just as Harry had left him, sitting silently on the same log, staring out at the sea with those empty, haunted eyes.
The man hadn’t moved in a week, it seemed. His hair was still as matted, his clothes still as threadbare. He was still shaking, his thin frame trembling in the cold, and the burn on his hand looked no better than before. But this time, Harry didn’t hesitate to approach. He was too tired, too hurt, to worry about anything else. He needed that comfort again, that strange sense of peace the man had given him.
Harry sat down beside him, wincing as the glass still embedded in his skin shifted painfully. He didn’t say a word. Neither did the man. But Harry didn’t need words. He just needed to be here, away from the cruelty of the Dursleys, away from the pain and fear that seemed to dominate his every waking moment.
For a while, they just sat there, the rain washing over them both, the sea crashing endlessly against the shore. And despite everything... the cuts, the bruises, the cold, Harry felt a little better. This was the only place where he didn’t have to worry about what came next. Here, with the man, he didn’t have to be afraid.
Instead of falling into the same quietness as before, Harry carefully began pulling the shards of glass from his skin. His hands trembled slightly, and every pull stung, but he kept at it, determined to clean the mess Vernon had made of him. The man beside him remained as still and silent as ever, his eyes fixed on the sea, his body still trembling from the cold, or some deeper pain Harry didn’t understand.
As he worked, Harry found himself talking. At first, it was just a few mumbled words about the beach, the rain, and how it felt being back. But as he pulled more glass from his skin, he began to speak more freely, as though the act of speaking soothed him as much as the quiet presence of the man beside him.
“I... I don’t really have anyone else to talk to,” Harry admitted softly, staring down at the fresh cut on his arm. “The Dursleys don’t care. I mean, they’re not really family, not like how I think family should be.” He frowned, pulling out another shard and wiping the blood on his trousers. “They... well, they don’t like me much.”
The man didn’t respond, of course, but somehow, that made it easier for Harry to continue. “I don’t know what I did wrong, really. I just... ask for food or something, and they act like it’s the worst thing in the world.” He sighed and carefully pulled the last shard from his cheek, feeling a strange sense of relief. “Sometimes I wonder if things will ever get better, you know?”
The man’s silence was comforting in a way. He didn’t offer empty words or false promises like people sometimes did. He just existed, and that was enough for Harry as he lay against him. Harry chatted at the man for an hour, pouring out his thoughts and worries, sharing bits of his life with this mysterious figure who listened without judgment. Eventually, fatigue crept over him, and despite the cold and the rain, he fell asleep against the man’s side, feeling a warmth he had long since forgotten.
When he woke up, the first thing he noticed was the weight of the man’s cloak draped over him, shielding him from the chill. He blinked against the dim light of dawn filtering through the clouds, and for a moment, he felt disoriented, as if he had awoken in a dream.
Turning his head slightly, he glanced at the man, who still sat in silence, eyes fixed on the horizon. Yet strangely, the man seemed to be shaking less, as if the storm inside him had settled just a little. The gentle rhythm of the waves and the soft patter of the rain provided a backdrop of calm, contrasting with the turmoil that usually filled Harry’s life.
Harry shifted, the cloak wrapping around him like a protective cocoon, and he felt a flicker of warmth in his chest. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should disturb the man. But then he realized that in this moment, they were both just two lost souls on a desolate beach, sharing the weight of their burdens in silence.
“Thank you,” Harry whispered softly, not entirely sure if the man could hear him or if it even mattered. But he felt the need to express his gratitude, to acknowledge the comfort this stranger had unknowingly provided him. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt monumental in the fragile space between them.
He settled back against the log, allowing himself a few more moments of rest before the inevitable return to reality. For now, he was safe.
Unbeknownst to Harry, as he walked away, the man turned and watched him leave with shiny, wet eyes. A mix of emotions swirled within him… regret, longing, and an unexpected flicker of hope. The boy had brought a warmth to the chill of his existence, a reminder of what it felt like to connect, if only for a fleeting moment.
As the rain continued to fall, pooling in the soft sand beneath his feet, the man felt a stirring in his heart. He had grown so accustomed to solitude and sorrow that the presence of the small boy had felt like a balm to his weary soul. Each step Harry took away from the beach felt like a loss, a small light fading into the distance.
The man’s gaze lingered on the path Harry had taken, the boy’s small figure becoming a silhouette against the darkened sky. For a moment, he contemplated calling out, urging the boy to return, but the words caught in his throat, tangled with the ghosts of his past. Instead, he let out a soft sigh, his breath mingling with the mist that clung to the air.
He remained seated on the log, his heart heavy but his spirit a little lighter, cherishing the memory of their brief encounter. Perhaps, in the vast expanse of the world, their paths would cross again. For now, he allowed himself to hold onto the flicker of hope that had ignited within him, spurred on by the innocence and courage of a child who had seen far too much pain in his short life.
He wanted to scream and beg Harry to come back. Anything to keep that warmth from fading, to hold onto the fleeting connection they had forged in the midst of their shared solitude. But the words eluded him, trapped beneath layers of hurt and regret that he had long buried.
Instead, he remained frozen, a prisoner of his own past, watching as the boy moved further away. Each step Harry took felt like a knife twisting deeper into his heart, the ache of longing swelling with every breath he took. The man's hands trembled at his sides, the sting of old scars and new wounds intertwining, mirroring the boy's own hidden pain.
The rain poured down around him, a relentless reminder of the cold emptiness that had wrapped around his existence for so long. Yet, despite the downpour, the man felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in ages. A longing to reach out, to protect, to care. The urge was so strong it nearly suffocated him, but still, he remained silent, a spectre in the shadows of his own life.
Despair threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought it back. He wanted to call out and shout Harry's name into the storm, to tell him that he was not alone, that there was someone who understood the weight of their shared burdens. But instead, he watched helplessly as the boy's small frame disappeared into the distance, taking with him a piece of the man's heart that he hadn't known was still capable of feeling.
As the last echoes of Harry's footsteps faded away, the man drew in a shuddering breath, allowing the rain to wash over him, masking the tears that mingled with the downpour. He knew he had to let the boy go, but a part of him couldn't help but hope that this wouldn't be their final goodbye.