It had all started, probably, with Voldemort. Like most things in Harry’s life.
The wraith of a man had beaten his way into the Potter house, had killed both parents, and had spent too long at the cradle.
Voldemort was not a man- a creature- of mercy. No, it was not mercy that made Voldemort linger over the babe. He felt- some urge- some warning, perhaps- that this was a line not to cross. He’d killed before, of course. He’d killed children and toddlers, in front of their parents, had relished the screams of utter despair that cut straight to the soul- torture so much more agonizing than any physical pain could ever cause.
No, it was not mercy.
It was a primal instinct, perhaps.
Voldemort had always been the apex predator. It was his greatest flaw. It was why he did not recognize it.
The feeling of inferiority. Of powerlessness. Of being hunted.
Of being prey.
Or perhaps he did.
Either way, he sent the curse. The room flickered green, the windows shattered, and that was the last Voldemort was seen for eleven years.
And the baby lay.
The baby did not cry.
The Dursleys were not the type of family who would abuse a young boy. They were certainly not a loving family, either, but it was Lily’s son. They would care for him. He would grow up well.
But something was off about the boy. Something was wrong. Perhaps a mother could love him, but Petunia was not his mother.
And the Dursleys were nothing if not cowardly.
So the boy lived in a cupboard under the stairs, heaped with locks and chains and bars. It was grimy and cold and dark. And small. Very, very small.
But something had always seemed very grimy and cold and dark and small about the boy. In a way, he was right where he belonged.
Every time the boy emerged, he was smaller and paler and more ghastly, so it was really no surprise that the Dursleys urged him to stay under the stairs.
Once he received his Hogwarts letter, the Dursleys did not bother to object. It only made sense that he was a wizard. He certainly could not be normal.
He became Harry with the arrival of his Hogwarts letter. It printed his name in bold letters. He liked it. Harry was like a jewel that dripped off of his tongue, a special present just for him.
“Harry,” he said, clutching the letter to his chest. “Harry, Harry, Harry.”
He fell asleep that night to the sound of his own name, whispered under his breath to whatever listened from the dark corners of the closet.
When the giant picked him up, he told him not to call him Harry. The giant had objected- vehemently. Harry did not care.
The giant had called him Potter, instead. That, too, had been on the letter. It was not special, like Harry. It was not intimate. It was cold, and Harry did not mind that the giant called him by it.
He hoped that he could go by Potter.
Everyone knew him as Harry.
“Harry Potter,” they whispered, staring longingly at him. “Harry Potter.”
It was worse then if they had just called him Harry. At least then some part of him would still be his, even if it was cold and strange.
Sometimes it was the boy who lived- often accompanied by cold fingers brushing towards his scar.
The scar, it seemed, was the source of all the problems.
Sometimes the scar was hidden by his hair, and then it was like he was back under the staircase.
He was not bothered, or touched, or spoken to.
He often tried to hide his scar.
Harry sat on a stool, nearly engulfed by a hat, for a very long time. It had nowhere to put him. That was okay. He would not know where to put himself either. Not in this world of glorious names.
His name was very beautiful, it was true, but it was hard to compare to Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor, or Slytherin. Especially Slytherin.
He suggested a closet.
Harry was sorted into Hufflepuff.
Once, Harry found a mirror. It was a very nice mirror. The sides were carved, engrained with gold, and it stretched much higher than Harry.
He looked inside, but he saw nothing. He even took off his invisibility cloak- he’d gotten it for Christmas. He liked it. He wore it everywhere.
He still saw nothing.
The mirror lured him back, almost every night. He found himself traveling to it, hoping to see something.
He saw an old wizard, one time.
“Harry, my boy,” he said, “What do you see in the mirror?”
“Potter,” said Harry.
The old wizard was confused.
“Call me Potter.”
He saw nothing, he told him. The old wizard was happy. Seeing only yourself, he said, was a sign of great happiness and acceptance.
Harry did not see himself, nor did he care enough to correct the old wizard.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher smelled like garlic.
Harry figured out why at the end of the year.
It was because he was carrying Voldemort on the back of his head. Voldemort, he knew, was evil. He’d killed Harry’s parents. He had a nice name, although it did not quite fit him.
Harry told him so. He was not happy. Or he didn’t loosen the bonds he’d used to tie Harry up, at least.
Harry did not particularly like being tied up, so he was not.
He walked firmly over the Voldemort, and placed his hands on his face. Voldemort had known, this time. His eleven years had given him the chance to experience being prey. He had flinched away from Harry’s outstretched hands, bare as they were of a wand.
It did not save Voldemort. He crumbled to ash under Harry’s ghost of a touch, like a butterfly fluttering its wings.
This made sense. Voldemort, Harry could tell, was not very strong. His name was wasted on him.
Harry was so perfect for himself. It was sad that others could not experience the joy that Harry did.
No, Harry thought, he knew a better name for Voldemort.
It was not a surprise when Harry ran into a tall dark-haired boy under the school.
He’d stumbled down there by accident, really, and the boy had seemed very pleased to see him.
He’d told Harry his name, and instantly Harry knew.
“My name is Tom Riddle,” he said.
“Voldemort,” said Harry.
The boy looked surprised.
“Tom fits you better,” explained Harry. “Use that name.”
The boy was not happy.
That was okay. Harry could explain later why Tom was a better name. He picked up the book and left.
There was a girl, who remained behind in the cavern. She would never have a name that fit her, and he did not think about her again.