When He...
Harry James Potter was a mere one year old when he was left upon the doorstep of the Dursley residence; Number 4, Privet Drive, Surrey. Minerva McGonagall lingered for only a moment, looking longingly at the child of her favourite student, before vanishing on the spot with a dull ‘crack’.
Harry James Potter was one year old when he set eyes upon Petunia Dursley for the first time. One year olds were incapable of higher thought, and so Harry thought things that we cannot understand.
But, in our language, his thoughts were best summarized by - I don’t like her eyes. Dull blue, grey blue, hazy blue, smoky blue. Smoky with deception and loathing, and not love or delirium. Not a hint of Mommy’s piercing green, death green, or Daddy’s happy hazel, loving hazel.
Harry James Potter was two years old when he wondered why Dudley got presents when he didn’t. When he tried to ask, he got the belt.
Harry James Potter was three years old when he wondered why the Dursleys hated him. He hoped Mommy would come home soon - even if she was a drunk.
Harry was four when he decided that the Dursleys were liars. They lied about a lot - but there was only one thing he was sure of.
The scar etched forever into his skull was from no car accident.
Harry was five when he went to school for the first time, and decided he liked it. The children there had so many different eyes - not like Dudley, eyes grey, flat grey, dead grey, longing grey. They thought it a gift that Petunia let him have so much, but in truth, he was cursed - and they smiled real smiles that weren’t malicious or delirious. And their eyes - green, so green, green like Mom, but not Mom, darker greens, flatter greens, forests and bushes and pine needles - and he liked reading. When he read at home, they tried to stop him, but here they had a lot of books; though most of them were overly simple.
Harry was five when he took home his first report card, and got the belt for getting better grades. He laughed at it, while tears streamed down his face. They thought he had finally cracked under the strain of that freakishness - there was nothing to laugh at, after all.
But Harry laughed anyway, purely because it wasn’t funny.
Harry was five when he disobeyed a direct order for the first time, and went into the attic.
Harry would never know it was locked. Because, as his fingers opened the door, they crackled and popped with magic no-one could see, and the lock’s tumblers fell away like leaves in Autumn.
And Harry found an old, dusty box, tucked into the shadowiest corner, and opened it.
Inside, he found a single photograph with a broken frame.
It was of his mother.
He stared at it, for a very long time, scarcely daring to breath. And then, he slipped the photo gingerly out the broken frame - ignoring the tinkling laughter of broken glass falling - and folded it once, putting it safely into his pocket.
And there was a small stack of unopened letters, all addressed to his aunt, form his Mom.
And he knew, that someone had heard him.
It was his birthday, in just ten minutes. He didn’t know who had heard - but they had. And they had answered with this.
Because every year, he wished for just one thing.
I want to see Mom again.
And they had granted that wish.
Harry was five when he sat in an old dusty attic, the moonlight dripping down on him from the circular attic window, and decided this wasn’t what Mom would have wanted.
He waited those last ten minutes, packing the few things he owned. A single, small notebook that was already nearly full, two broken pencil halves both nearly worn down to the nub, and a stolen jacket that he had taken from the school lost and found, claiming it to be his.
And when the twelfth ring struck, piercing the air, from the clock tower down the block, Harry James Potter made his escaped under cover of moonlight, never looking back.
And thus, Harry was six when he ran away from home.