Chapter Text
Prologue
Ⅰ
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Maybe it was his fault.
Maybe it wasn’t.
Harry Potter didn’t know, didn’t understand, but either way-the cup had fixed itself.
A five year old Harry couldn’t have known that this little incident would result in his Aunt Petunia going an ugly white, or his Uncle Vernon going a vibrant red-purple, or his Cousin Dudley going a sickly green. No, a five year old Harry just saw the results of Dudley trying to pin the blame on him for breaking something, and the result was..the cup fixing itself.
Harry thought this was brilliant.
Aunt Petunia disagreed.
That was the first time, at least as far back as Harry’s memories went, that he began to understand that he was, well, different. That's not exactly how his aunt and uncle would put it, of course, but Harry often thought that they couldn’t really be trusted to know much on the topic of Harry’s different-ness. Mainly because for some reason, no matter how much Harry got hit or starved or tossed around or ridiculed or chewed out or ignored or emotionally ripped down or yelled at or screamed at or shrieked at or hissed at or or or…well, no matter what hell the Dursley’s brought down, the different-ness couldn’t be taken away.
Harry Potter didn’t get why that was, except maybe for one small factor…
Harry Potter never thought it was a bad thing, or a freak thing, or anything like that…because Harry watched that cup fix itself. Imagine the possibilities! Harry could, well, well he could…he could eat, he could be warm, he could have all of that if for one moment he could simply fix a clumsy drop of a dish or an overcooked meal or he could fix himself, and then the Dursley’s could love him, and feed him, and give him comfort after a nightmare or an extra blanket when his cupboard got cold or maybe even let him have a room, or even tell him that he’s done such a good job in the garden, that he’s made such a good meal and oh Harry, you’ve done so well on your math exam here’s a sandwich or really just…anything…good.
But as Harry got a bit older and tried harder and worked his tailbone off every single day, he realized something.
He could never be good enough. There was no room in the Dursley family unit for their strange, clumsy, no good nephew.
Harry wasn’t sure exactly when he became resigned to this fact. Maybe it was after one of many Dursley patented rants about Harry’s drunk-driving dead parents where Harry deigned to ask what his mother’s favorite color was and earned a smack across the face for his troubles. Maybe it was after Harry fell asleep in the garden and crushed one of his Aunt’s tulips and was dragged inside by his Uncle’s fist in his unruly mop and tossed inside the cupboard. Maybe it was after Dudley had pushed Harry down the stairs and he sprained his wrist and his ribs ached and he cried out for his Aunt but she..she…
Well, Harry…Harry became tired. He couldn’t stop them from hating him anymore then he could stop admiring his different-ness. Because he was strange, and a freak, and a bad boy who tried his hardest but it never mattered because he, Harry Potter, was not lovable.
But then, oh, but then, Harry got a letter. A letter from Hogwarts, and suddenly it all made sense. Harry wasn’t different! Thousands of people had this…this magic, and Harry could almost see the new possibilities…home, a home, friends, friends who Dudley couldn’t threaten to stay away from him or else -adults! Adults who could see a boy like him and tell him he did a good job and he’s just a normal boy and…
Well. apparently not. Because Harry Potter, you see, Harry Potter is apparently the Boy Who Lived.
But he wasn’t…wasn’t a bad different. No, he defeated an evil dark wizard when he was just a year old. And oh! His parents weren’t deadbeats who got drunk and decided to recklessly drive with their one year old son in tow and get themselves killed…no, this dark wizard killed them while trying to kill him.
So, Harry, once upon a time, had parents who loved him. Loved him so much, they died for him.
And…how can a child possibly dream of honoring them? What can you do to cherish their memory, their great sacrifice?
Harry was, and is now, very sure that he’s already failed on that front.
Because no matter how many picture albums or memoirs are told from friend’s of his parents or long lost Godfathers…no matter how precious little he is told about his parents, Harry can’t bring himself to really understand who his parents were. And he never will understand, because they're dead. They died and they died for a boy who grew up clawing and begging and pleading for any precious bit of love or attention he could squander up from relatives who had long since decided that he wasn’t even a human being.
It's wrong of him to think of them this way, but no matter how many angles Harry looks at, his heart feels abandoned. His heart feels lost. His heart feels hurt. There’s a gaping chasm in his chest, in the very core of him, all ragged edges and splintered sides that will never be filled because Harry Potter is…not someone who can be loved.
Oh, but many have tried. Harry has no doubt. He’s sure that Hermoine and Ron think they love him, he knows that Sirius thought he loved him, that his own parents thought they loved him, just as assuredly as he believes that the whole Wizarding World thinks they know who he is.
Even Harry himself thought he knew that much. Maybe he deluded himself with the notion though…true understanding of the Boy Who Lived?! Is there such a thing?
But no. In Harry’s five years of surviving the Wizarding World, Harry realizes he’s lied to himself about so, so, so much.
Now though, Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World, champion of Albus Dumbledore, Godson of Sirius Black, son of James Potter and Lily Evans, bane of Potion’s master double agent Severus Snape’s existence, beloved best friend of Hermoine Granger and Ron Weasley, surrogate child of Molly and Arthur Weasley, rival to Draco Malfoy, nephew of Petunia and Vernon Dursley, equal to Voldemort, is tired.
Because Harry loved, or supposed he must’ve loved, his parents-and they died. Harry loved Petunia Dursley, and she could never have comprehended the very notion. Harry loved Hogwarts and magic and the Wizarding world, and Hogwarts and magic and the Wizarding world seemed out to kill him. Harry liked Cedric Diggory, loved the idea of him, and he was killed without a second thought.
And Harry…Harry loved Sirius Black.
And it got him killed.
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Number Four Privet Drive is about as droll as ever, Harry muses to himself as he lays on his back staring dully at the ceiling above him.
It’s been a…somewhat, at least…quiet summer…after the first week of being despondent and mostly unresponsive despite Vernon’s manhandling and bellows and Petunia’s screeching and nails digging into his arm, the Dursley’s decided that Harry was a lost cause and left him alone for the most part. As long as Harry did his chores and made himself scarce, no more…well, less than usual…spouts would occur.
And Harry would very much like to avoid that right now.