Roles
Harry shivered. The sun was already setting, the cold beginning to arrive, and he still hadn’t found a safe place to stay on this full moon night. The moon pains had been bothering him since the night before and he knew he couldn’t stay at the Dursley house much longer, so he endured what he can, gathered what he could, and walked away.
Now he was here, alone and starving in the middle of some forest with his few important belongings in an old Dudley backpack. Harry felt breathless, as if the air was struggling to reach his lungs, his eyes filled with tears; he had never, not even with the Dursleys, felt so alone and lost, not knowing what to do with himself. He always had papers to fill out, things to do, people to please, in Little Whinging he had to be the freak, the weird, skinny, silent orphan, who was hidden from plain sight but was always there, tidying up the house, doing such as meals, painting the fences or taking care of the gardens.
And when he found himself a wizard, thinking he would be free of these forced and tiring roles, he was thrown into another reality, another completely, different world, that needed a strong, confident and loyal Harry Potter, someone he never was and, perhaps, never would. But he played his part, he followed Hagrid, then he followed McGonagall and then he followed Dumbledore, he obeyed, he was kind and smooth and trusting, he even ended up tricking the Sorting Hat into putting him where he knew Harry Potter needed to be, in Gryffindor.
He made friends, an irritating but loyal and funny pure-blood who could guide him through the wizarding world with few hiccups (or so he initially thought) and then, after sacrificing himself and throwing himself deep into his new role, he accepted a witch like himself, who never knew who he was until recently, but who was smart, shrewd and logical. It was a good balance. Hermione held him on the path of learning, not letting him fall so far into the wonders and diversions of the new world that Ron presented him with; and they held him tight, tighter than Harry intended, in the perfect Boy-Who-Lived role, Ron kept him away from full studies, didn’t let him explore the library freely and distracted him whenever he tried to be a little more than needed and what Hermione made him do was... similar, a bit, to what Aunt Petunia did: to never visibly surpass Dudley’s mental ability (not that he had much to begin with), so Harry had no trouble with that part, letting their thirst for knowledge drop down to average grades and average performance in classes.
And everything was fine, perfectly perfect, he had friends; he had security, and he had his obligations, his role to play, he didn’t feel lost. He fell so deeply into the Boy-Who-Lived farce that he began to fight “Evil” without question and defeat the enemies that fell in front of him, first Quirrell, with his fake turban and corrupted soul, and then Tom Riddle, with his soft speech and lust for blood. He killed them, defeated them and was praised for it, a part of him boasted, it shone through the praise and confidence, he flourished in it, for the first time in his life he was wanted, praised, he was a leader, a hero.
But now he was here, in the middle of a dark forest, with no one to impress or perform, he was alone with himself, with no role to play, no goal to fulfil, with a bite burning in his thigh, bones aching and few memories in a battered backpack. For the first time in his life, Harry Potter was totally terrified.