Chapter 1
Harry grows up in the cupboard under the stairs, under Aunt Petunia's pinched looks and baleful eyes, under Uncle Vernon's purple veined glares and shouts of Boy!, under Dudley's big meaty fists and his Harry Hunting.
He earns himself a couple of nicknames: boy (a favorite of Uncle Vernon's), freak (a favorite of Aunt Petunia's), worthless, ungrateful, useless, slow, and so on. What he never earns, despite everything, despite his doing the chores and weeding the garden and cooking breakfast, is the Dursleys' love.
(Harry is seven when he realizes this with a startling clarity. He's under the stairs in his cupboard, stomach hungry even though he made the food, limbs aching from hours of weeding the garden under the hot afternoon sun. He is seven and in his cupboard, tired and aching and miserable, and he can hear Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon praising Dudley for something ("such a smart boy, my Duddydums!" "Atta boy. Just like your father, aren't you!") and he thinks they've never said that to him.
Even though Dudley is slow and dim. Even though Harry's sure that he's done a lot more stuff than Dudley ever has. Even though Harry gets better grades than him in school, even though Harry helps out around the house (not that he has a choice), even though Harry tries so hard! He tries so hard and Dudley gets everything he wants anyway! And he doesn't even try! It's not fair! It's not!
Why does Dudley get all their love and praises and all the presents he wants on his birthday, but all Harry gets is a little happy birthday song whispered to himself in the garden? It's just not fair!
Dudley never gets called a freak. Dudley never gets shoved in the cupboard and locked there until his stomach sounds like a ship breaking in half. (Dudley's never had to feel what it's like to go hungry, Harry thinks bitterly. Not like him.) Dudley never gets snapped at by Aunt Petunia and shouted at by Uncle Vernon.
None of this is particularly special, or new, or hasn't happened before. But nonetheless.
It is there, hungry and bitter in the dark, that Harry knows. The Dursleys are never going to love him, no matter what grades he brings home or how many chores he offers to do. It's set in stone. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and the Dursleys will never love him.)
Harry is seven when he decides that he doesn't need their love. (Angry and tired and hurt, a little boy in the cupboard soothes himself by telling himself the grapes are sour anyway.)
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The next big moment of realization he has is at the age of nine. Two years after he's accepted (bitterly, reluctantly) that the Dursleys' love is impossible to achieve, he does the impossible. (Not earning their love, though. Never that.)
He's nine, and Dudley is there taunting him with a new toy he got for his birthday. (Harry didn't get anything for his birthday.) It's some posable action figure, and it's really not much at all. Dudley has plenty of them. And Harry's never wanted one, anyway.
But still. Something about the way Dudley's waving it at him triumphantly, contemptuously, with his smug snotty voice, makes something dark and hot well up in his chest. Dudley's got loads of action figures like that in his room. Harry would know. He watched him unwrap them all at his birthday, heart bitter. Maybe it's because Harry didn't get anything. Hasn't ever gotten anything, while Dudley gets presents in the double digits every year. Maybe it's because he wants something for once, because Dudley can certainly spare one, because it's definitely not fair.
Viciously, Harry wishes. I want it, he thinks. I want it. Give it to me. He glares at Dudley, angrily, determined, and wishes so hard it feels like something snapped in his temples and a feeling of dazedness comes over him. He feels almost light-headed.
And lo and behold - Dudley hands the toy over.
Harry stares at his cousin, bewildered. He almost thinks it's a trick, that Dudley's going to snatch it back the moment he reaches for it, but the one thing stopping him is that he knows his cousin isn't smart enough to play tricks. Hesitatingly, warily, he reaches. His hands land on the plastic of the toy, and his fingers almost touch Dudley's, but he snatches it back as soon as he's got a firm grip. The toy is in his hand, and his heart's thudding, and he's waiting for Dudley to open his mouth to scream for Aunt Petunia, to call him a freak, to do anything.
But he doesn't. He just stands there, eyes glazed, looking at Harry but like he's not really seeing anything.
The pounding of his heart is loud in Harry's ears, but he gathers up his courage to speak again. "Go," he says. "Go away."
And Dudley turns as if to leave.
Harry can barely believe what he's seeing. It still feels like a trick, but if it isn't, if he just made Dudley give him the toy - "Wait!" he blurts out.
Dudley stops. Taking a deep breath, Harry says, shakily, "You lost the toy. You were playing with it but then it got lost and you don't know where it is." After a second, he tacks on, "and it's not the freak's fault, either."
Dudley doesn't react. Harry doesn't know what he was expecting. "You can go now," he says, hands shaking but white-knuckled around the bulky plastic arm of the toy.
And go he does.
Later, in his cupboard, Harry listens to his aunt and cousin talk, his ear pressed against the wood. He's hidden the toy, of course. If any of them ever saw him playing with it, it'd go straight back in Dudley's hands. Harry put it in one of his socks. The one that probably used to be white but is grey now and has a hole in it where his big toe is, he remembers. It's the oldest pair. Aunt Petunia will never think to check there, not that she goes into his cupboard.
"Where's the toy you were playing with, dear?" Aunt Petunia asks. Harry curses silently that of all things, it's the toy she remembers. Trust Aunt Petunia to know the most useless details.
"What toy?" says Dudley, dumbly. And trust Dudley to forget, Harry thinks spitefully. He's got enough to not even notice.
"The one you got for your birthday, sweetie. You know, the one with blue armor? You took it everywhere to play with."
"Oh. Dunno. Prolly got lost somewhere, I guess."
Their conversation goes on after that, but Harry's stopped listening. His heart feels like it's going to burst. Dudley hadn't remembered. Dudley hadn't remembered! Harry took his toy and he hadn't remembered!
It feels revolutionary. It feels a little illegal. It almost, almost feels wrong. But Harry just got his first toy ever, and it's pretty much new, and he nicked it off of Dudley, which makes it even better!
Harry celebrates for a few moments, silently, in his little cupboard. And then he thinks to himself, what else can I get away with?
It's the start of the end.
∞∞∞∞∞
After that, Harry starts using his new powers more. He's not sure what his limits are, but he hasn't hit it yet, so he's pretty happy with the way things are going. The Dursleys still hate him, of course, and Harry hates them back, but now he can do stuff to them.
It's all small things. Whenever Dudley gets presents, Harry makes Dudley give him one or two, making sure to wait a few days after so that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon don't get suspicious. They know Dudley's got a short attention span, and he'd probably leave the toys to gather dust anyway. Really, Harry's doing them a favor, he reasons. It's not like anyone else is going to play with the toys.
Sometimes he nicks a few pounds from Uncle Vernon's wallet, but very rarely. Uncle Vernon runs a milling company, so he's definitely not poor, and he won't notice a few pounds going missing every once in a while. But this is much more dangerous than taking anything from Dudley, Harry knows, so he makes sure to be very careful. He nearly got caught once, and he thought he was going to have a heart attack, but he got out of it using his powers. They've really made him more daring than Harry would have ever thought he could be. Harry dreads to think about what they would do if they found him stealing money. Lock him in his cupboard till he shrivels into a skeleton probably, he snorts.
Harry also starts using his powers to make the bullies at school leave him alone. He's an easy target, and children are mean, and they learn from Dudley's example. None of them are ever as bold as Dudley, of course, who's his main tormentor. But Harry can't do anything to Dudley yet, so he goes after the smaller fry. Still small things. Making them trip, stealing their belongings, getting them in trouble with the teacher by making them say something bad. Nothing big. Besides, they deserve it. He leaves the kids who leave him alone in peace.
Most of them learn that picking on the freak will give them bad luck. Others, however, are unwilling to give up their power so easily.
∞∞∞∞∞
It happens like this. School's ended, and Harry's avoiding his cousin, and about to go home. But then he's confronted by three boys. Harry's pretty small and thin, so they tower over him. He knows he won't be able to take them in a fight, but his knowledge of his powers lets him straighten his spine and tilt his chin up. He can see the nostrils on one of them flare at his audacity. As if he's letting them walk over him, Harry sneers privately.
It's very boring. The three think they're much scarier than they really are, trying to crack their knuckles and standing on tip-toe. Really, he thinks, even Dudley is scarier. At least he gets to the point quickly.
They ask him the usual. Does the freak think he's better than them, is he the one doing all those things to them, of course he is, he should know his place and they're going to remind him. Blah blah blah. Harry's heard much worse, really. He just wishes they would get it over with already.
So then they start trying to get physical, but Harry already knows how to deal with this. He does the same thing with Dudley; he makes their eyes glaze over, and wishes really hard that they'd go away and not bother him ever again. And it's working, he can see that it is, but.
For the first time, one of them is resisting. And that's when Harry starts getting scared. He never thought someone could do that. Dudley never did! Neither did Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon, and they're grown ups, so why isn't this boy listening? He thought his powers were infallible, he didn't know that someone could - could not do what he told them to!
"Go away," he says, panic in his voice now, eyes wide. "I said go away! Listen to me!" His orders are steadily getting higher and higher in tone, and he takes a step back. The boy isn't going away! Why? It's always worked! Why isn't it working now!
No! This isn't how things are supposed to go! Harry's got powers that no one else has, he knows he does, and he should be able to make them listen! The boy should be obeying him!
The fear hardens into anger, suddenly, and Harry's just so angry that this boy is not LISTENING when he SHOULD BE! So he does something that he wouldn't normally do, high on his fury, and reaches out to push the boy. And while he does it, he thinks, fiercely, vehemently, GO AWAY!
Finally, finally, the boy listens. But he listens a little too good. Because even though Harry's got pretty weak arms, the boy goes flying backwards, and he didn't mean to use that much strength, wish that hard, he didn't mean to-
But it's too late, and the boy stops flying because something makes him stop. It's a tree, a very old but sturdy one, apparently, because the boy smashes into the trunk (Harry can hear the thunk and it makes him wince) and falls limply to the dirt.
Now the anger turns back to fear, and he didn't mean to do that! Harry goes over to the boy (the other two are still standing there, dazed) and stops a few feet away just in case he's pretending to be asleep and is planning to kick his legs out from under him. He watches warily, a little confused, a lot scared, in the way that children are scared when they know they've done something that will land them in trouble.
"Hey," he says. The boy doesn't stir. "Hey," he repeats, louder, and the panic rises with his voice. "Stop pretending. I know y-you're awake." His voice breaks on the 'you're', but still there's nothing.
A little hysterically now, he says, "get up. Get u-up!" and when he doesn't, he starts wishing for it.
This time, the boy gets up. Harry's about to start yelling at him, relieved and confident that he was right, the boy was just pretending, when he looks at the other boy's face. His voice and his accusations die in his throat. The eyes are open, but they're not looking at him. In fact, they're not looking at anything. They're just rolled up in his eye sockets, and now that he thinks about it, the boy's face seems a little pale, and there's a little drool coming from the corner of his mouth, and-
Harry knows, suddenly, that he's done something very, very wrong. Worse than taking from Dudley, worse than stealing from Uncle Vernon even. This is the kind of wrong that would make the Dursleys follow through with their threat to drop him off at the orphanage. Terror pinches his heart, and it's starting to get hard to breathe, but even so Harry stumbles to his feet.
Dread in the back of his throat, he turns to the other two boys. He almost forgot about them. Harry doesn't know if they know what happened, but he's not taking that chance. He's about to order them to forget when he thinks of a better idea. "Y-you three were playing here, today. Tag. You w-were it. H-he," Harry points to the boy with the unseeing eyes, "was running from you, and you t-tagged him, but you pushed too hard and he - he went f-flying into that tree." It's not that far from the truth, really. "Then you got an adult because he wasn't m-moving."
He stares at them. It feels like the first time he took a toy from Dudley all over again, but this time he can't mess up. He can't. He needs them to believe this. Harry glares at them, fear lending him strength, and wishes again and again. He repeats his instructions until he's satisfied. Then, jerkily, he turns to that boy. Harry closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see this. "G-get down," he orders, voice trembling, "a-and don't get up. Ever." It crumbles like wet tissue paper. Harry can hear the impact.
Then, because he thinks he's going to throw up, he turns and runs away. His eyes are stinging, his throat feels like it's clogged up, and his lungs are burning. But he doesn't stop running, not until he's gotten back to the Dursley's house, and even then he doesn't slow down until he's back in his cupboard. Neither Aunt Petunia or Dudley saw him, and he didn't see them, and Uncle Vernon's at his job. There, in the darkness, his gasping finally starts to slow. It's partly because he ran all the way back, but mostly because of- the boy. The boy that he-
But he didn't mean to. He didn't, he swears! He really didn't! Harry just wanted him to go away, he didn't think that would happen, he didn't see the tree, and- and- and anyway, it was their fault, for trying to bully him when they knew he had powers. It wasn't his fault. It WASN'T.
He stays like that, arms around his knees, chin against his chest, for a long time. Repeating over and over again that it wasn't his fault, because it's true. It is! It is, it is, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. A liar! He thinks it over and over again, until he can almost believe it.
(Later, the news spreads around the neighborhood. The poor boy, he hears the neighbors say. Aunt Petunia just sniffs disdainfully and cautions Dudley against playing with ruffians like those two.
Later, Harry will realize he hadn't even known the boy's name.)
∞∞∞∞∞
After that, Harry's retaliations start getting a little harsher. He makes a girl trip while she's on the stairs for sneering and calling him a freak earlier, and she tumbles two entire flights and breaks a rib. He forces a boy to climb over the fence into a particularly fierce neighbor's dog, who everyone knows to stay away from, for shoving him on the playground, and he ends up with several bloody bites on his arms and legs. The dog got put down afterwards. (Good riddance. Harry's never liked that bugger. Always barked at him.) He doesn't feel guilty about it at all, because they deserve it. Especially for not learning after what happened to t-that boy. (Not his fault.)
This makes everyone, even the particularly dull-headed ones, learn to leave him alone at last. Even Dudley doesn't bother him anymore that much, not after what happened to Piers. (He won't touch Dudley directly, because he lives with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. He's not stupid.) Aunt Petunia looks at him funny sometimes, and snaps a little more when she has to talk to him, but also leaves him alone a little more. He's pretty sure she knows, or at least suspects, but she hasn't got any proof. Harry made sure of that. And he knows she loves Dudley too much to risk anything. (Now, he scorns at the Dursley couple's love for their son. It makes them easy to keep in line.) He wonders if she's scared of him. Good. She should be, he thinks cruelly.
It's amazing, how much he hates the Dursleys ever since he stopped trying to earn their love. It feels suffocating sometimes, when it crushes his heart and boils his blood and he feels like if he opens his mouth he'll spew flames and burn them all to ashes. But Harry doesn't. He won't. He still needs them. (And maybe, if a little boy younger than seven living inside the parts he tucked away is still clinging to a false hope, then he'll never admit it, even to himself.)
Marge, however. Marge is someone he doesn't need, and honestly he's pretty sure she won't be missed that much. Maybe by Uncle Vernon, but Aunt Petunia hates the dog and Dudley thinks it's boring whenever she comes over. They won't mind too much.
Harry hates the dog even more than he hates the dog owner. Ripper, the nasty thing. It always barks at him, and it reminds him of the dog that got put down. He thinks the same thing should happen to this one. Before, Harry used to be scared of it, because it'd always chase him up the tree and wouldn't leave him alone till midnight, and Marge would always laugh and never call it off. Aunt Petunia was never any help, either. But now he just hates it, like he hates the Dursleys and Marge. Plus, Marge will be sad if the stupid thing died.
So he does what he always does, what he's been doing for the past few years. He gets rid of it.
It's very simple. Marge and the Dursleys have already gone to sleep, since it's already midnight. All that's left is him and the stupid, nasty mutt. It stopped barking about an hour ago, which is good. Now it's just prowling around the base of the tree and snarling at Harry. Dumb thing. All he has to do is use his powers, and the mongrel's eyes glaze over. He's never tried with dogs before, but Harry was confident. If it works on humans, there's no reason why it wouldn't work on animals.
He starts climbing down the tree, and he's halfway down when his foot slips. For a terrifying second, his feet aren't planted against anything, and he's falling in the sky, and he can't breath, but then the ground rushes at him and he lands (luckily not face-first) on the dirt sideways. His lungs start working again and his heart starts trembling, and he's scared that the lights on the house will turn on any second, that they've heard his landing, but after a few seconds it's clear that they're sleeping like logs. Harry lets out his breath and gets up, a little unsteadily, dusting his knees which have gotten dirty. They kind of hurt, but he's got more important things to do. He looks at the mutt.
The dumb animal is still standing there, in the same pose it was a few moments ago, in the middle of snarling. But its eyes are glazed and its expression is lacking, just like when he does it on people. Quietly, Harry sneaks over and grabs it. He nearly drops the thing at how heavy it is, but manages to secure it in time with one hand digging into the scruff of the back of its neck and the other under the stomach. It's not the best position, Harry's pretty sure, but it's working. And he doesn't want to let any part of the mongrel's body drag on the ground or they'll be able to track it.
So, unsteadily and slowly, Harry starts making his way to the water barrel. It's right next to the house, and he knows it's full because it rained yesterday. He wobbles his way there, still lugging the mutt, and sets it down for a moment as he tries to open the barrel. He probably should have made sure before he did this, but Harry's sure that he doesn't need do. He can just use his powers, and it works after a few moments of glaring and wishing. He carefully, silently sets the top aside on the dirt, and turns back to the mutt.
Using the same position, he hoists it up in his arms. Before he can get cold feet, he dumps the thing in. That's when things nearly go wrong.
Firstly, Harry didn't think about how much water there was in the barrel. Too much. It overflowed with the addition of the mongrel's mass, so now there's a dark ring of wet dirt around the barrel and his clothes are sopping. Second, the mutt woke up. Harry decidedly hadn't accounted for the thing snapping out of his control. Well, he thinks, that was stupid. He'd probably wake up too if he got dunked into ice cold water.
But before the damn thing can wake up the entire house, Harry shoves its head under. It's kind of difficult, since the barrel is almost his height (he's short) but he manages. He makes sure to grab the fur on its head really firmly, or else it'll bite him. It's trying hard to get out, flailing and giving muffled barks which just comes out as bubbles, and Harry almost lets go a couple of times just because of how hard the mutt is shaking the barrel. But he doesn't. It's fear and determination that lets him grip tighter, because he knows he's in too deep to get out now (but not as deep as the mongrel. Ha.).
More water sloshes out the side and spills on his shirt, again. He's definitely going to have to change. Or maybe he can will the clothes to dry? Whichever the case, he definitely can't be tracking wet dirty footprints inside the house. That would be worse than getting found out for drowning Marge's dog.
Eventually, though, the thing stops fighting. But Harry doesn't let go, because he's got to make sure. It wouldn't do to have a half dead mutt in the water barrel, after all. He's got to finish the job. So he stays there, his arm starting to turn numb from being submerged in the cold water, his clothes dripping and turning the dirt to mud, for some minutes. Harry's not sure how long exactly, but he's pretty sure it was long enough.
When he lets go, and stands on tip-toe to see inside the barrel, he can see the blurry outline of the mongrel sinking. He pokes a hand inside the calming water and shoves, just to really make sure.
Finally, he stands back and looks at himself. He's soaked, and starting to shiver. The night's not very cold, but it's freezing in wet clothing. Harry decides to take care of that first, willing his shirt and pants to dry. It takes some concentration, but eventually the damp spots start shrinking until he's all dry again. Then he turns back to the barrel, because he knows the wet ring of dirt around it looks suspicious. He cups some dry dirt in his palms and spills it over the wet parts, repeating the process until he can't see any moist dirt. The ground looks lumpy as a result, however, so Harry bends down again and smooths out the little hills with his fingers until it looks mostly natural. Harry doubts the Dursleys and Marge would have even thought about that, but he's not going to do this by halves.
Satisfied, tired, and sleepy, Harry finally goes to bed, sneaking in through the unlocked door (Aunt Petunia knew he was going to come back after midnight, once the mutt was done being a menace.). The stiff cot in the cupboard was made softer by the contentment of a job well done. Harry was looking forward to Marge's expression in the morning.
(In the morning, the ghastly woman cries when they can't find her favorite menace and then its corpse turns up in the water barrel. Dudley was the one to find it, surprisingly. Harry had marveled at how the body had bloated in the water overnight.
But really, wasn't crying a touch overdramatic? Over a mutt, no less! Harry jabs fun at her inside his head, but his tongue is still and his face is perfectly blank. Not that anyone is looking at him. They're too busy pretending to be sad and trying to console the woman. He's sure that they're rather glad the stupid thing is gone, but they just won't say it.
Privately, Harry thinks Marge looks even more hideous this way. With great big slimy tears making their way down her many folds in her face and her blowing loudly into her handkerchief every few moments, and her sobbing that sounds like ridiculous gasping, he wishes she'd be done already and leave. It was great fun at first, but then it just turned boring. Well, he supposes it was better than seeing her smooch Dudley on the cheek and sing his praises for ten minutes straight.
Uncle Vernon is too preoccupied with Marge to think of anything else, but Aunt Petunia catches his eye for a moment as she's trying to console the woman with her high reedy voice. Harry sees the suspicion and hatred in her eyes, directed at him, and he knows he's going to pay for that stunt even though she's got no proof, but he doesn't care. He's too happy and proud with himself to care. Though he's careful to school his face and not let her know.)
∞∞∞∞∞
The Dursleys are much, much more careful around him afterwards. Well, Harry thinks, maybe careful is the wrong word. They certainly aren't nicer to him; he still eats last at breakfast, the smallest portion, cleans around the house, weeds the garden, and everything he used to do. They certainly don't seem concerned that he quite literally drowned a dog, or that he could do worse.
But sometimes, only sometimes, Harry can see something in Aunt Petunia's eyes that isn't disgust or contempt, and sometimes Uncle Vernon looks like he's about to blow up at him but stops himself at the last moment, and sometimes Dudley's taken aside by either one of them when he tries to rile up Harry. (Though he rarely does that anymore.)
Harry knows it's fear that he sees in Aunt Petunia's eyes, fear that silences Uncle Vernon, fear that causes both of them to warn Dudley against angering the freak.
It makes him feel powerful. It makes him feel big, like maybe he could crush the world under his heel and face a hundred warriors and win. It makes him feel inflated like a hot air balloon. He loves it. It's addicting, the sense of power he has over them, though he knows better than to utilize it. (Cornered rats will bite, after all.) They should fear him. They better.
It settles something inside him, something that's hungered and starved since the seeds of hatred were first planted in his heart. It feeds the thing in his chest that wants revenge and repayment. For everything he's done for them, for every time they sneered and belittled him, for every hunger pain that lanced through his stomach in the middle of the night. Harry wants to make them hurt, the way they hurt him, but worse. He wants them to cry and beg and cower at his shoes, to acknowledge his power and grovel for his mercy, and then he'll get their hopes up and pretend to forgive them, only to crush their dreams later.
(He wants to cram Dudley's head in the water barrel and hold him down as he flails and begs in air bubbles, like all those times he shoved Harry's head in the toilet, see how he likes it. Wants to see his bloated body the morning after, pale and swollen like the mutt.
He wants to lock Uncle Vernon into the cupboard, squish all that fat in and lock the door with twelve bolts. Leave him in the darkness with no food and no water and no bathroom breaks for years, until he's used up all his fat and wastes away to a skeleton. Wants him to breath in the musty air of the cupboard and bat away cobwebs and shriek at spiders like the pansy he is, see how he likes it.
He wants to make Aunt Petunia weed the garden for day and night without a single break, until her hands are bloody and shaking, her fingers stiff and cramped. Have her be burned by the sweltering afternoon sun until all her hair dries into straw and her skin is red and raw. Wants her to work till her clothes are soaked in sweat and she feels sticky and miserable and hot, see how she likes it.)
Harry wants so badly. But he can't, or won't, because he doesn't know how long he can keep them under his power and if they might resist like that boy. Plus, he needs them for a roof over his head, and it's not like he can get a job yet or pay his own bills (like Aunt Petunia always makes sure to remind him).
They should be grateful for his generosity. It's the only thing keeping them alive.
∞∞∞∞∞
When Harry's Hogwarts letter arrives, he's not even that surprised. He'd known he was different from the Dursleys, from everyone else - freakish, according to them. But now Harry knows that his powers are magic, which means Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and Dudley aren't. He's special. It all makes sense! They were jealous of him, of his powers, of what he could do! They were jealous, so they tried to drag him down and demean him, so he wouldn't know he was better than them all along! Of course. Of course. All along! They were the stupid and useless ones all along! No wonder.
Ha, thinks Harry, triumphantly, viciously. The Dursleys can have their boring normalness. I'm special. I'm better. Ha! Serves them right.
He wants to lord it over Dudley, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon too, but he holds himself back. He's better. He doesn't need to prove his superiority to them, so he'll let them stew in their own inferiority.
Harry's so happy he thinks he could cry. The last time he remembered feeling so much joy, it was from drowning Marge's dog. But this is even better.
He can't wait.