Doubts
It starts with doubt, small things at first. Harry Potter wonders, how could tests meant to stop a Dark Lord be solved by a couple of first years? It is a small thing, but it grows in his mind, especially when he returns to the Dursleys. That summer is worse than all the time he was with them before. The beatings, the withheld food, being locked in his room. All familiar but all so much worse. Rarely does he hear ‘Boy’ anymore. It’s always ‘Freak’ now. Punishment for daring to go to Hogwarts. He would shrug it off, like he always had before, but somehow, it’s begun to stick. Sometimes, he slips and begins to think of himself as a freak. It’s worse when he’s left shivering in bed from pain, the injuries and lack of food making his body feverish. He makes it though, he makes it to his second year.
And he regrets it. His second year is nothing but a horror. Now, even in the Wizarding World, he’s a freak, and he hates it. Talking to snakes? It’s harmless, isn’t it? But now they fear him, at least some of them. (Part of him thinks that’s better, better than the ones that are cruel, but he pushes that part down. He doesn’t want to be mean, even if it means being safe, doesn’t he?) As much as they try to hide it, Ron and Hermione get that look in their eyes too, that hint of worry. It gets worse when Hermione is petrified too. Ron may be able to keep it from his actions, but he’s terrified.
As much as Harry hates that year, there is a roiling, sickening fear in him at the prospect of having to return ‘home’ earlier if the school is closed. He does not want to imagine it, but it comes in his dreams. What if the school is never reopened? He doesn’t want to be with the Dursleys. Then, the truth comes out, and maybe that’s worse than the fear, because more doubts slip through the cracks. How could Dumbledore have possibly known to warn him about the ‘aid always given to those loyal,’ if he didn’t know what was going on in the school? And if he knew what was going on, why didn’t he stop it? But Harry pushes those thoughts away and does what he must. He fights, and he wins, and he lays down to die from the poison in his veins. Guiltily, he finds himself relieved at the darkness coming to claim him, but it never does. He lives, and though he thanks Fawkes, in his heart, he doesn’t mean it.
Another summer, as bad if not worse than the last. His magic helps him heal, but part of him wonders if one day, it will be so exhausted it won’t work. Maybe one of these days, the beatings, the near-starvation, will kill him. He tries to push away the alure of it. Part of him is tired, part of him is angry, so angry, and another part is hopeful. He tries to tell himself that the hopeful part is the largest. It might be a lie, but he’ll never admit that to himself.
Finally, the third year comes, and at the start, it is perhaps the very best of his years. Yes, his first year held the most wonder, but it had been eclipsed by the worry of returning to the Dursleys after going to a magic school. Now, he knows what he will face and that he can survive. Now, he was a target for all that anger. It is perfect. Yes, maybe Voldemort killed his parents, but the man responsible for handing them over is after him. Sirius Black is within reach, and all the hurt, all the questioning, all the sorrow, has an outlet. He lets his anger burn, saying and doing things that he knows…maybe he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t care, even if it earns him those almost-scared looks from Ron and Hermione once more. They know he would never do anything, right?
Then the tables turn, and Harry learns the truth. It wasn’t Sirius. It was Pettigrew, and Remus and Hermione have to stop him and Sirius from taking action. He tries to pretend that his wand springing up toward her when she pulls him back is reflex, that a hex or worse is almost on his lips by mistake. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. But there’s so much hope, a glowing ember that there won’t be more pain or fear. Sirius is kind, and he will understand Harry, what he’s gone through. He must. He’s been through loss and pain and fear himself. He will understand, and Harry can finally be free of the weight in his chest.
And the hope is gone, an ember snuffed out before it could catch. He follows Hermione and saves Buckbeak, but it is all he can do not to scream about the injustice, about all the pain the world has brought him. He doesn’t know how he was ever able to conjure a Patronus. There is no joy in him. Perhaps it was the knowing that he could. Regardless, Sirius is free. Harry is not, but it’s something. Enough? Probably not, but he lets it go, heart shuddering at the thought that every year may be this way. He will always be hurting, always separate from everyone else, always a thing of fear and pity. Will there never be someone there who won’t carry those things with them? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to think about the thing in his chest, heavy and cold, growing colder still. He doesn’t want to think of it as his heart, his soul, but he knows that’s what it is, hardening and cracking under the pressure.