Entry
The purportedly newly eleven-year-old child, who is also known as “Harry James Potter, “Boy,” Freak,” “Thief,” “Liar” and other names, who is secretly sometimes a girl and sometimes a boy and sometimes both and mostly neither, frowns and stares thoughtfully at the wild-looking giant for a long, long, long moment. But then again, the said giant has just barged into the rickety hut that their relatives have brought them to, after a week long being hounded by mysterious letters carried by owls, only to tell them the name of their supposed parents, and that their freakishness is magic, and that all that their relatives have told them about their origin are a huge lie.
They don’t know what to say or do, where to begin even if they say or do anything, and what and whom to believe.
They do know not to ask any question or stare, however, as well as not to display their freakishness, or practically everything else that elevates them above their cousin or makes them stand out in any way, shape or form.
And they have just violated half of the first rule.
Averting their gaze to their first ever birthday cake and the remains of their first ever birthday meal, and hoping that Hagrid the gentle-feeling giant won’t punish them for staring, they stifle all the questions and wonderings that have popped up in their mind and listen as he berates their relatives.
The both of them are off the hut not long after, and “Harry” learns a new rule, a new reality: Never insult someone named “Dumbledore” in front of Hagrid, or he’ll be terribly upset and punish you… or somebody close to you who is weaker, like him punishing Cousin Dudley for the insults of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.
And soon after, they observe that, apparently, wizards – or at least Hagrid – can make a boat glide in the choppy water without any kind of propeller with a single tap of a pink umbrella… like when giving Cousin Dudley a pig tail.
`Do I have to bring a pink umbrella everywhere? Did he just hide their freakishness that way? Like when I used my freakishness to help me do chores?` they wonder, but know better to shut up, and, instead of wallowing in the ever-multiplying questions, they discreetly help propel the boat faster with their own freakishness.
They so love playing with water and nearly all of its forms, for any reason, in any time, and helping themself go faster to see the wizards – who might be kinder to them than the Dursleys – is a pretty good reason in any case.
And now, they find that they like the rough ride on the waves that results from the faster speed very, very, very much.
Well, but unfortunately Hagrid doesn’t.
He throws up over the edge of the boat.
Just as a wave is rising high, as if receiving the mess.
`EEEE! Gross!` the child shrieks inwardly, and hastily redirects the wave away from the boat with a thankfully rather practised thought.
Even more thankfully, Hagrid doesn’t seem to realise what “Harry” has done, although the mess-bearing wave has just sluffed away without ever touching the boat.
The child takes great care not to do any other obviously freaky thing while in the company of the sea-sick giant man, after that. They even don’t help propel the boat anymore. They don’t want a second meeting with a huge blob of vomit, and they can’t afford being punished now, either, so close to never ever returning to their relatives forever and ever again.
It’s so very hard to do, though, once every awed, curious, greedy and roaming eyes are trained on them, when Hagrid brings them into a dingy pub named the Leaky Cauldron in London and introduces them as “Harry Potter.”
All those eyes are glued to the ever-present, ever-new-looking lightning-bolt scar on their forehead, and all those mouths exclaim variations of “It’s Harry Potter! So very good to meet you at last!” and it all makes the child want to vanish on the spot or go somewhere else without physically running out of the pub.
They have long learnt that all kinds of attention are never good, in one way or another. And they got lots of it now, without a way out but an obvious show of freakishness, which would end up being much worse for them than the attention if they tried to use it.
If only they could bolt out of there and never come back by any means, or at least conceal the apparently famous scar with their freakishness….
Fortunately, after a crowding and hand-shaking and patting and hair-ruffling session that makes it hard for them to breathe with overwhelming panic, Hagrid clears the way to the small courtyard at the back of the pub, which is populated only by a dustbin and a few blades of wild grass, bordered by a tall brick wall.
But unfortunately, the brick wall is apparently a hidden, freakish gate to a bustling market street.
A very, very, very bustling market street.
And, every so often, eyes are attracted to the shabby, far oversized clothes that they wear, or maybe to their taped-up spectacles, or maybe to their tiny and skinny frame swimming in their cousin’s hand-me-downs, or maybe to the scar that sometimes peeks out from behind their fringes, or maybe to Hagrid’s huge and hulking body behind which they try to hide as much and as long as possible.
It’s very, very, very relieving, to finally step into the bank and deal only with preoccupied adults and smallish, sharp-faced, sharp-toned beings that Hagrid calls goblins. It’s even more relieving when only they, Hagrid and a goblin named Griphook speed down one of the tunnels to somewhere deep, deep, deep underground in a small rail-cart. Better yet, they pass by so many wondrous things, even an underground lake! And they do it by zipping up and down and to the left and to the right and even in a spiral in the same speed!
The mountains of gold, silver and bronze coins hidden behind the vault door that Griphook opens with a small golden key, supposedly theirs, are no less interesting, but not in a way that their relatives would call freakish.
No. Their relatives will never say that money – especially lots of it – is freakish, regardless of whatever its form is and whoever owns it.
If their relatives ever know about this, the coins will no longer be “Harry Potter’s,” regardless of how the family usually abhor anything freakish.
Speaking of that…, “Mister Griphook? Can we exchange some of these coins to pound sterlings?”
But Hagrid speaks before the goblin who stands by the door can answer. “Y’dun need that, ‘arry.”
And the same words are repeated again and again and again and again wherever they go to buy supplies, after Hagrid has retrieved a small something importantly from a deeper vault, without any explanation or even a second look by the giant to the items the child is currently interested with. “Harry” can’t even take hold of their vault key, or the money pouch… which hasn’t been filled by them, in the first place, though the money is supposedly theirs.
Well, in the wand shop, it’s actually, “Y’need a wand to do magic, ‘arry,” although they have ever so politely but insistently – as insistently as they dare, anyway – tried to convince the giant man that they can do without both a wand and the expenditure of 7 Galleons for a not-so-good match, but the result is the same: They may just as well not be here, for all that they can do either by themself or with what they purportedly have.
Apparently, whether with their relatives or the so-called Wizarding World, “Harry James Potter” is still just a little freak who is penniless and allowed to do nothing that is not tightly preapproved by certain controllers.
They can’t even air out their opinions, with how famous they supposedly are. Aunt Petunia’s gossip shows that they often heard from their living space in their relatives’ house – the cupboard under the stairs – have taught them amply about that: Even the most innocent opinions of a famous person can be twisted round to attack them back.
And, despite the hut break-in and the shotgun bending and the pig tail and the boat stealing, while they’ve got to tote a bulky wooden trunk containing freaky things and a cage of irritated snowy owl at that, Hagrid still wants them to return to Privet Drive number 4, their relatives’ house. He even gives them a wad of pounds that he fishes out from one of his many jacket pockets for their train ticket “home” alongside their money pouch, but not their vault key.
It’s just like when Aunt Petunia withdraws the meals after promising “the freak” those for “good behaviour.” Or when Uncle Vernon gives them old socks of his and a few clothe hangers for their birthdays after promising them “most lavish presents” for doing their chores well, claiming that those are most lavish presents indeed for a worthless, disobedient freak like them. Or when Mrs. Fig forgets to feed them human food instead of cat food after promising the former to them most enticingly, when she sits for them. Or when Cousin Dudley continues with his “Harry Hunting” game with his friends and beating them up, after promising not to do so if “Harry” would do all his homework for him.
False. All false. And they have been so foolish as to believe that this time the promise would be true, because it was not spoken by any of the usual people in their life.
Well, no more. This time, they are determined that everything is going to be different. No more believing in promises. No more depending on others to keep those promises. No more depending on others whenever they can help it, fullstop.
So, after toting the heavy, heavy, heavy trunk and cage of peeved snowy owl for hundreds of metres among the crowds of pedestrians, just barely on the direction of the train station, and slipping into side roads and alleyways for good measure, they gratefully nestle themself in a clean-enough nook and discreetly count the money that Hagrid has given them.
Well, apparently Hagrid can’t count, or doesn’t care much about “Muggle” money, because there’s 127 pounds in the wad that he gave them. It’s enough for a whole new set of clothes and many, many more if they’re shrewd and careful!
Trying not to grin or show their happiness in any way, they slip the wad of precious, precious money deep into one of their tatty, far oversized trainers.
Well, they got a reason to look and feel grim, next, as they regretably unlatch the owl’s cage. “Sorry,” they whisper while softly, gingerly caressing the owl’s head. “I can’t keep you. Can’t take you everywhere with me like this. Won’t be good for you, and won’t be good for me too. You know it, right? Got to make the cage and the trunk small, then where will you be? I don’t want anybody to take you away. Owl isn’t really a usual pet round here, you know, and owls are usually not awake during the day either.”
Their heart twinges painfully when the owl waddles out of the cage and hops onto their twiggy arm. “Come on,” they croak, their voice wavering, their eyes burning. “You’re my first friend. I wish we got the chance to be best friends. But I want the best for my friends, anyway, best friends or not, and the best for you right now is staying far away from me.”
The owl cuffs the side of their head with its wing, as if berating them. The child laughs wetly in response, but still raises their arm, in hope that it can take off easier. “Come on. You can’t be here. If you want to be with me anyway, maybe you can come to me when I’m alone and safe already, maybe tonight. I’d love that, actually. But for now, just… go pick a good nest and sleep.”
And the owl takes off.
Stifling sobs, the child impatiently wipes their wet cheeks and transfers the wetness to the side of their baggy, baggy trousers and T-shirt. The cause of the wetness isn’t that easy to brush away, though, and so the cheeks are wet again in no time at all, even as they concentrate and shrink the cage into the size of a ping-pong ball.
In fact, by the time they have stuffed the tiny cage into the trunk and shrunk the trunk into the size of a box of matches as well, they can no longer stifle the sobs.
And their vulnerability attracts attention of the most likely bad kind, by way of a gang of hard-looking young men advancing on their nook.
Now terrified as well as horribly sad, the child darts into the nearest oblivious crowd and try their best to mingle, while seeking the next one to slip into. They’ve long lost the way to Charing Cross Road, but maybe that’s a good thing, because then the nosy, grabby gawkers of the “Wizarding World” won’t know where they are, too.
They aren’t accustomed to walking for so long, though, not to mention among thick crowds of strangers.
Their mental fortitude collapses first, followed soon by the physical one.
Fortunately, they’re near a rather deserted clothing shop, then.
Unfortunately, the salesperson refuses to sell any clothes to them, kindly telling them that they will get a better bargain in a pawn shop that’s not located too near Central London.
They stare desperately at the apologetic salesperson, but then they go away, back into the fray.
Their relatives have taught them amply not to question things or try to plead for anything, after all.
They visit a bakery, next. But here, the salesperson is outright rude to them and even threatens to call the police to arrest them for harassment.
So, heartsick, exhausted, terribly hungry and feeling hemmed in from all sides, they trudge on, now to a train station.
But not choosing a train that would return them to his relatives’ house.
They board a series of trains that head ever northwards to Scotland. The school – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – is in Scotland, after all. By going there now, they will save up time, energy and cost, just needing to travel there once – and stay there, if they can help it. This way is a surer way to reach Hogwarts, too, than boarding “the Hogwarts Express” from “Platform nine-and-three-quarters” at King’s Cross Station, as the school train ticket said when they took a brief look at it. Hagrid never told them about how to reach that platform, let alone that train, that’s why, and this child, pragmatic as ever in the name of self preservation, does not want to know what would happen if they did not manage to board the Hogwarts Express on the first of September at eleven, as the ticket detailed.
Thankfully, neither the ticketers nor the minimarket shopkeepers at the train stations reject them and their money, when they buy the train tickets and necessary supplies, respectively. One of the shopkeepers even points them to a nearby clothe shop at which they can get fitting clothes for themself! And another shopkeeper points them to a shoe store a few stops afterwards. Meanwhile in the train, they also get to relax a little, sitting on a reasonably padded seat in the artificially cool air while nursing some bottled water and a ham-and-cheese sandwich.
The ride in the ferry that they take next to cross to Scotland instead of taking a train is even more enjoyable than that. Surrounded by such a vast body of water, they feel almost instantly reenergised. In fact, they take to whooping softly each time a big wave slaps the side of the not-so-big ship, and when the ship gets to ride a huge roller.
Caught in their own excitement of a great first experience in a ship, they forget to watch their expression and body language. It’s quite fortunate that none of their relatives is nearby, and neither any wizard, as far as they can tell, because their relatives would definitely seek to crush their joy, and they have a sneaking suspicion that the wizards would either gawk or do a similar thing.
Remembering the attention that the latter group of people gave them, the child takes care to disguise themself once they regretfully disembark from the ferry on Scotland’s soil. Using the first bit of freakiness that they have ever mastered, they straighten up their messy hair and lengthen their fringes to cover the lightning-bolt scar. Next, they tone down their eye colour to a more common leafy green and change the shape of their eyes and face a little, getting rid of their specs in the process.
Even with such small changes, they already look pretty different, if they say so themself. So, more confident, not to mention sated and reenergised, they inquire to the first bus ticketer that they encounter at the harbour about an inexpensive way to go to the highlands, preferably near a lake or at least a stream, citing that their parents are going to follow them from afar.
They end up camping at a shaded, tiny inlet that’s almost a lagoon on the mouth of a clear mountain stream that helps feed a large lake, after a few bus stops and hiking for hours on a seemingly abandoned train track, and it’s perfect in their mind.
The white owl even keeps them company when they are no longer near people. Such a clever bird!
Using liberal amounts of their freakishness and the knowledge from all the books they read in the school and public libraries whenever they were hiding from Cousin Dudley and his gang, they slowly build a simple, sturdy wooden shelter on a wooden raft there to live in, chattering to the attentive owl all the while. It’s made of a big tree growing near the shore which they respectfully put to sleep before they dig it out right from the roots. It’s just four log pillars set on the corners, supporting a simple wooden slanted roof melded together with their freakishness to prevent leakage, and low walls all round, necessitating no windows nor any door. The raft it stands on is similarly melded together with their freakishness, cushioned a little on the middle surface for their sleeping spot, and anchored to both the lakebed and a sturdy tree near the shore so it won’t float away. It enables them to live on the lake surface, so close to the water that boosts and cheers them up in equal measure. It also enables their new friend the owl to stay with them, of course uncaged.
It’s neither the cupboard under the stairs or Cousin Dudley’s rubbish-bin room guised as second bedroom, and they’ve got a friend to enjoy it, and they relish it.
All the while, they subsist on their supplies, also the wild fruits – mostly berries – that grow near their new home, sometimes pointed out by their friend. Sometimes, they also venture out to the nearest non-wizard village to buy and trade for nonperishable foods, though the owl never goes with them into the village. It’s terribly far to go on foot like they do, but it’s worth it, seeing that their body often protest the lack of fulfilling sustenance fiercely whenever they eat only fruits for the day.
They even learn to knit for the price of guesting at an old woman’s little cottage and listening to her chatter about everything for an afternoon – which is not a price at all for them, seeing how kind and grandmotherly she is! Her name is Morag O’Neill, and she asks them to call her Grannie if they please… and of course they do! She’s one of just a small handful of adults who treat them well. She even treats them to yummy biscuits and a glass of milk in each visit!
She calls them Aidan, when they meet the first time and the child flounders, unprepared with a name to accompany their new look and thus unable to say a name that might not be traced to the famous “boy who lived” in some manner. It’s strangely perfect, so the child stores “Aidan O’Neill” alongside “Harry James Potter” for later use, with the preference being the former, and visits her whenever they can.
There’s actually a village of wizards nearer to where they are camped. They find it during the first time they’re exploring for possible places to get supplies. But they daren’t go there for fear of being mobbed without the dubious safety net of Hagrid’s intervention, in case those people recognise them even when they are in this form.
When they’re not exploring on land with their friend and in water alone, stocking up for food, knitting themself more clothes, adding to their raft-home or visiting Grannie O’Neill, they practise their physical endurance and agility the best that they can. They run laps on their side of the lake while leaping or running over obstacles on the way, adding more laps and intricate obstacles slowly but surely in the course of days. They do not wish to be so weak anymore. But they daren’t go farther, past the small inlet that shelters their new home, because there’s a huge castle looming on the other side of the lake, while there’s a road winding down to the wizard village half-way across it.
They do not wish to be ignorant about the Wizarding World, either. They read their school books from front to back again and again and again while resting at night, under the illumination of a ball of light summoned by their freakishness. They also practise the concepts found inside some of the books without their not-so-matched wand after they feel that they have gotten those concepts down-pat. They even exercise and experiment with their senses and not-so-versatile, not-so-much body-morphing ability for added flavour.
They invent their own – wordless and wandless – spells with their own brand of freakishness soon after, inspired by the concepts found in the books. Those that they haven’t used long before Hagrid came and claimed they’re a wizard, anyway. They can and do morph blocks of wood, stone, clay and ice to their liking, for example, but now they learn about changing one thing to another, such as a matchstick to a needle. They refuse to be vulnerable in the rather unfriendly new world they’re about to enter, that’s why. And they know very well that even a small needle can hurt much and therefore be used as weapon, like they’ve experienced during the mandatory vaccination in primary school.
They venture out to the wizard village only when they have mastered making quick little weapons and shields, in fact. For this excursion, they go for broke with their disguise, too: a child shorter and younger than they are by the name of Polaris Brook in deference to the tiny stream running near their waterlocked home and their newfound love of stargazing, with truly androgynous looks, complemented by deep, dark red hair that matches the androgyny in length and style, plus a pair of large, round, deep blue eyes. They even cover their distinctive, supposedly famous scar with skin-toned plaster.
Unfortunately, while they attract much concern from the non-wizard people wherever they go there for the first time thus far, the reaction of the wizards are worse. Somehow the wizards fear that an unaccompanied child going on their own would be beaten or burnt to death by “the Muggles”, although the village seems to be of wizard occupants only. They manage to escape some of the scrutiny only by fibbing like mad about where their parents are.
This way, they find how credulous the wizards are, even gullible. They’re happy about it right now, as it means they can wander about the village more or less freely, but they know they can run afoul of it some time, given their celebrity status, however unwanted.
This way, they also find that the village is named Hogsmead, that the castle perched on the cliff opposite their home is actually Hogwarts, and that they have been living at the edge of “the Forbidden Forest”… which is a ludicrous name, in their opinion, as it borders a school, and they know that children can’t not be tempted by such a name.
Well, non-wizard children, at least, but wizard children mightn’t be different by much if at all, if the adults are to be judged and compared to the non-wizard adults.
This way, too, they find that Albus Dumbledore – the man Hagrid seemed to refer, the elder brother of the gruff but honestly caring Aberforth Dumbledore who is the barman and owner of the Hog’s Head Pub – is the Headmaster of Hogwarts as well as Chief of “the Wizengamot” that seems to be equal to Chief of the Parliament – if ever there’s one! – in the non-magical world, and also Chief of “the International Confederation of Wizards” that is almost definitely equal to the General Secretary of the United Nations, and also the person who sequestered “Harry Potter” away “for his own good, the poor tyke,” and he’s the one who defeated Grindlewald in his youth and who kept “You Know Who” – the “evil wizard” “Harry Potter” supposedly defeated while still a year old – at bay till the latter could “defeat” him, too, as if a non-magical person defeating Hitler alone and holding back another world terrorist at bay after that.
Albus Dumbledore sounds like the absolute King of the Magical World, and “Harry James Potter” is about to join one of his courts somewhat willingly – well, at least they were, before they found about these alarming titbits.
The first of September approaches far too quickly, in their opinion, in this light, and also after a busy, free life with their owl friend in the open air upon a calm mountain lake, with picturesque view all round and summer sunshine that don’t sting much this up north, also with frequent visits to Grannie O’Neill. The child feels both readier and even more unready, after taking in the bits of information and piecing them all up. But, just like they couldn’t prevent the Dursleys and Hagrid from doing whatever they wished, they can’t prevent the day from arriving, too.
They can go with their scar plastered up, though, and they do plan to go as Polaris Brook and Aidan O’Neill as much as possible, to confuse the hordes seeking “Harry Potter.” They are quite used to little bits of defiance like these, anyway, by now.
It’s tiring, after they hoped never to have to do it again, but it’s far better than losing themself or whatever bit of freedom and peace of mind they can get.
Maybe, someday, they can even be truly free, and truly themself, whoever they are in truth.