I long for the darkness
Dumbledore was not a man to be trifled with.
Harry realised this moment after they departed from the Dursleys, whom they had left cowering and shivering in the wake of his rage.
The man hardly spoke on their journey there; he would stare ahead, his eyes fixed on the sea in front and his hands clutching the sides of their rickety boat as it rocked from side to side.
Harry wondered what he was thinking, whether internally bursting at the seams with rage and anger, imagining the Dursleys swallowed whole by the shadows like Harry often did, or thinking of the sea and how calm its vast blue expanse seemed today. Oh, how Harry longed to shift his body and plunge his fingers into the water that lay beneath, to feel the coldness surround his fingers and bite his nails, to watch the ripples form around his arms distorted image and see the creatures once again, their yelps nothing more than murmurs to his tired brain and bleeding ears.
Harry did not know what Dumbledore was thinking, but when the man glanced back, his eyes twinkling so ominously and his lips upturning into a frosty smile as he gazed almost hungrily, he found himself glad that he did not know.
With the cold water, he calmed his heart's rapid pace and his fingers' shaking and silenced his racing mind with thoughts of magic.
He was not a freak, a misfit, or a burden; he was not the strange child in their neighbourhood or the idiot who roamed in the rain.
He was magic.
He was magic and valued for the first time in his life.
Harry would rather die than let that go than return to the Dursleys and their contempt and his cupboard, with its bare walls and hairy spiders.
He was magic.
He could not let that go.
Harry had expected many things from the magical world.
He had expected to walk into a magical land with floating sweets and all the food he could eat simply a flick away. He had expected a land hidden, its inhabitants fresh out of the storybooks he had read, with elves, giants and witches who had green skin and cackled, with gnomes who could dance and animals who could talk.
He hadn't expected this.
The Leaky Cauldron was an odd place.
It was small, crowded and dingy. People sat huddled around small café tables with pints of famous beers that Harry had often seen his uncle chugging on long nights after work, drinking and talking loudly and animatedly as if they were in an argument only to burst out laughing. The pub had an atmosphere of warmth to it, a cosy feeling that Harry often associated with comfort.
Because warm meant safe.
Warm meant he wasn't in his cupboard, hiding and cowering with a blanket too small and tattered to cover his worn-out body.
Warm meant he was in the library or Miss Figgs's living room when she turned the heating on and had fetched logs for the fire.
Warm meant there were no Dursleys, nosy neighbours, or disappointed teachers to screech and scream at him.
Warm meant safe; Harry had always thought that.
Harry stepped inside. His hair stuck to his forehead, briefly hiding his lightning bolt scar, and his glasses seemed too large and bulky for his face. His clothes felt old and out of place in the room full of those wearing extravagantly designed robes and suits. Yet even then, the moment he stepped in, he felt different. There was a certain buzz in the air. A buzz that tingled with excitement and energy. It felt...magical, nonetheless.
"Ah! Professor Dumbledore, sir! It's been a while since you've been here. What can I get you? The usual?" the bartender called from the counter, his hands firmly gripping a silver cup as he polished back and forth. He gazed at Dumbledore, his eyes adorned with awe and his tone respectful. He stood up straighter the second Dumbledore gazed at him, his hands abruptly let go of the cup, coming down to fiddle with his clothes and his smile widening tenfold.
"No, thank you, Tom," Dumbledore replied, his mood jolly, his eyes calculating, yet unaware of the shuffle from the bar occupants and the awe radiating from them. It was as if Dumbledore was the celebrity and the people the adoring fans. "I'm here to show young Harry around before he begins his year at Hogwarts."
"My... god! Is that Harry Potter?" the bartender, Tom, exclaimed. If possible, his smile seemed to increase in size once again, and his hands trembled as he gripped onto the edge of the counter as if to steady himself. Gasps radiated from every corner of the room.
Harry gulped softly as every eye turned to gaze at him, each glancing at his eyes once before moving up to gawk at his forehead. He moved forward, subconsciously flattening his hair to hide his scar and straightening his clothes, brushing off any imaginary dust. A woman materialised before him, her wispy white hair tied back into a loose bun as her clothes shone golden in the light. Thrusting her hand forward, she grabbed his hand and shook it enthusiastically. "Such a pleasure, Mr Potter. What a pleasure." She mumbled, her eyes crazed with glee and excitement.
A man strode forward, his hair slicked back and dyed black. He gently pushed her to the side before snatching hold of his now free hand and shaking it with the same enthusiasm and vigour that the lady had. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Such a wonder!" He squeaked, his voice cracking, seeming so unusual and out of place for him.
The routine continued. Another would move forward, pushing the other out of the way, their clothes only becoming more and more expensive and their faces blurring into one as they all shook his hand and murmured a quiet thank you, whispered welcomes and loudly introduced themselves. With each passing minute, the crowd only seemed to increase, and Harry became more desperate to escape with each passing minute. His hand ached, breathing seemed to refuse to come quickly, his ears rang, and his brain hurt as he tried to recollect the numerous names he had been told and the multiple faces he had just seen.
He did not know what he had done.
What had he, Harry Potter, done, the odd kid from the neighbourhood, to deserve such praise and adoration?
Shaking, he clenched his hands in a fist, the muscles in his palms and fingers so worn and tired from the simple greetings.
Harry was not used to this.
He was used to being run from, to knowing that his hands were cursed and no girl or boy in his class would dare to touch them for fear that they got his freakish disease.
Harry Potter was not a star, was not loved, and was not worthy of any praise; it was what he had grown up thinking and accustomed to.
This world in front of him disagreed.
With each handshake, each smile and each overeager greeting, the truth he had spent hours telling and being told, the life he had grown up living and the hatred he had spent days bearing, all seemed to vanish within a second.
He was not a freak, a burden, or a useless oddity the Dursleys deserved to punish.
Harry knew he should be grateful that this was his reward for spending so many years at his uncle's mercy and aunt's sharp words, for spending so many years hiding in the bathrooms from both teachers and students alike.
Harry knew he should be grateful because, for once, the world was giving; for once, it was giving him something other than pain and fury and all the mixed-up emotions that lay balled up in the pit of his chest, and for once, it wasn't taking.
He was walking forward. Instead of moving one step forward only to be pulled three steps back, he was leaping, his feet touching the ground before him and no imaginary force weighing him down, dragging him to the start again.
Yet, all he could bring himself to feel was fear—cold, icy fear that erupted from his stomach and formed a lump in his throat. It caused him to shiver and shake and grow until he could not breathe, and the faces in front of him blurred and moved, unrecognisable in a sea of unfamiliarity.
In the tiny hut he had slept in, on the cold hardwood floor where he had wished himself a happy birthday and watched as the door blasted open and his aunt cowered behind his uncle, he had only known how to be one person.
Harry did not know how to be Harry Potter, the son of Lily and James, two heroes who died tragically, leaving behind their infant son, who would grow to carry on their legacy.
He did not know how to be The Boy Who Lived, what it meant, or why passersby whispered it as they left. He only knew that it was meant for him, that it was and always would be what they expected him to become.
He only knew how to be Harry.
He only knew how to be the freak, the darkness that created shadows, the rain that melted against his skin, the storm that would go on to destroy, or the water on the beach, quietly lapping against the sandy surface, unaware and unbothered.
He did not know how to be Harry Potter, the wizard, the son and the saviour.
He did not know them, nor did he know how to become them.
"Welcome, Harry, to Diagon Alley."
Dumbledore had led them through moments later, a crowd of eager witches and wizards hurrying to the side, watching eagerly as their saviour peered behind the vanishing bricks and into the alley behind.
The street was beautiful, however. Each winding path led onto yet another shop filled to the brim with yet another strange oddity—a breathtaking new path. Harry stumbled forward, his eyes searching the place, frantically drinking in every shop and every object that passed. This was what he had been expecting.
He whispered breathily a soft 'wow' on the tip of his tongue as he watched groups of children all dressed in long colourful robes weaving in and out, glancing at the shops nearby and smiling, filtering in and out of the cultured area.
A boy pushed past him, his hands shoving Harry to the side as he sprinted forward. He stopped at a shop in front and pressed his face onto the transparent glass, watching the shop's contents gleefully. Curiosity filled his senses, an overwhelming urge to follow and join in, to pretend that he had spent his entire life between these walls and shared the same carefree laughter and fascinated awe that they did as they stared, unaware of his presence through the window. Running forward, Harry followed stopping at the same shop the boy had and leaning forward his eyes scanning the window catching a glimpse of a streamlined broomstick, long and crooked, its mahogany wood gleaming in the light. He caught sight of the engraving carved on the side, its words shining brightly against its golden plate. Nimbus 2000.
The boy next to him leant forward, his tongue sticking out and his bright blue eyes so vast as he gawked that Harry felt ashamed for not sharing the same emotion and had to physically restrain himself from asking the boy what this was.
"Harry m'boy. Come along. We have much to do." Dumbledore called from behind, his hands stroking his aged beard and his eyes twinkling again as he watched the children clamour for a glimpse of the fated broom. Harry nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on the structure again, feeling the wood call to his soul. He longed just once to brush his fingers over its smooth material. It had to be worth something. It had to be so much more than a regular broom that he had spent hours cleaning with, and Harry, turning back one last time before he left, wondered if it could fly like in the stories. He hoped it could. He wished it could soar into the horizon with him, the hair on his head ruffling in the wind and the clothes on his back lighter as they billowed behind him, the world at his feet.
He turned and raced towards the man, falling into a steady pace beside him as they walked, passing the numerous coloured shops. Onlookers glanced at them, their eyebrows raised as they stared, Dumbledore's presence in the Alley so rare and fleeting.
They walked until a building came into view, a looming tower that glared down at them, daring them to tarnish its regal glory. The building itself was large and white, shining as if it had been crafted by marble, held up by supporting beams that stood firmly planted into the floor. It was winding, reaching up to the sky in its majestic way. A red carpet lay on the floor of it, leading onto a set of double doors, each inscribed with ancient symbols and carved markings that Harry could barely make out. His eyes followed the carpet, stopping at the door and searching the faces of the...creatures at each side.
They were short. Small yet mighty. Each creature donned an expensive-looking suit, their coat buttoned up, and their shirt was free of ruffles. Their ears were long, pointing upwards, and their noses stood out, hooked and sharp. Their eyes were beady and seemed too narrow, with every witch or wizard walking past and glancing at them, only to walk into the building as if they were nothing but another oddity no one mentioned. Their faces were fixed into permanent scowls, and the thin whisps of their hair were slicked back. They were, in a nutshell, unlike anything Harry had ever seen.
"So...what is this place?" Harry asked, his eyes still roaming the area and his mind wandering.
"Welcome to Gringotts Bank, M'boy. " Dumbledore's raspy voice filled his ear as he was nudged forward. "Come along. We have lots to do today."
Dumbledore had left him at the train station.
The man had beamed, his eyes twinkling once again as he handed Harry his train ticket, and his new things (including a white snowy owl the man had gifted him for his birthday) and left with a flick of his wand, leaving him blinking rapidly as he stared at the scorch mark on the floor, the ticket in his hand and the trunk that lay next to him filled to the brim with things he could barely pronounce, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter that he was going to have to carry this all home, with no idea what bus to get and no money other than the gold coins he had picked up from the vault his parents had left him. It didn't matter that Uncle Vernon was going to be furious and Harry knew he was in for another beating.
He was going to a magic school.
Harry Potter was going to a magic school and at the time, there was no thought better than that.