Harry Potter perched on the weather-scarred boulder at the far end of Number Four's backyard, legs dangling off the edge like he was a gargoyle on holiday. The fruit tree overhead drooped protectively around him, its knobby branches forming a leafy fortress from nosy neighbors, stray footballs, and the occasional passing Dursley. It wasn't much, but the rock had always been his little island—solid, quiet, and impossible for Dudley to climb without wheezing like a punctured accordion.
Dudley had never mastered the art of climbing anything other than the kitchen counter, so Harry had long ago claimed the boulder as his official refuge. Funny thing was, he had no idea the only reason the rock still existed was because Aunt Petunia realized it kept him out of Dudley's reach… and kept Dudley out of trouble. She'd practically hissed at Uncle Vernon to stop hiring people to haul it off. According to her, the rock did wonders for their "family tranquility." She didn't bother explaining that Dudley terrorizing the neighborhood was not, in fact, considered a charming childhood hobby.
But today, Harry wasn't using his rock to escape Dudley. Dudley had been packed off with his parents earlier in the summer, leaving Harry the house, the yard, and this boulder all to himself. It was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The kind of quiet that made him think too much—and he'd been doing far too much of that already.
School started in three days. Which meant three days until Hogwarts presented him with another delightful mystery wrapped inside a catastrophe and topped with a near-death experience. Harry kicked idly at the bark of the tree and wondered which flavor of nonsense he'd get this time. Would Dumbledore dump another monster inside the castle "for educational value"? Would a student be thrown into danger just so he could rescue them? Or would Voldemort show up again, probably in another questionable host body, ready for their annual duel-by-unfortunate-circumstance?
Honestly, Voldemort rarely started the trouble. Harry had noticed that. Their run-ins usually happened because Albus "Let's-See-What-Happens" Dumbledore had nudged events like a bored grandmaster knocking over pawns just to hear the click.
Harry didn't mind the occasional adventure—in theory. But looking back at the last few years, he was starting to feel less like a hero and more like a chess piece with extremely questionable job security.
His first year especially. At eleven, he'd thought he was following clues like some real-life mystery solver. Except unlike in children's books, the danger was very real, the stakes were insane, and the adults were—how to put this kindly?—utterly useless.
He still felt a sting of embarrassment when he thought about how badly he'd been manipulated. Ron and Hermione had been wonderful company, but also unknowingly perfect tools in Dumbledore's plan to steer Harry into confronting the Philosopher's Stone thief. Hermione, bless her overachieving soul, had been convinced they needed to be the ones to retrieve the Stone so they could "keep it out of Snape's hands." Never mind that Snape literally designed one of the traps. Or that Hagrid had said it wasn't him. Or that Harry himself had figured out Snape was too obvious to be the villain. Hermione had wanted to prove herself, and Harry, being the loyal idiot he was, had followed.
The irony? Voldemort—who was actually after the Stone—could never have gotten it anyway. The enchantment on the Mirror of Erised prevented anyone who wanted to use the Stone from retrieving it. Which meant He-Who-Lacked-Nose-And-Sense never stood a chance.
And neither, for that matter, did Dumbledore. The Headmaster had shoved the Stone into the castle without permission, told no one the truth, and then had the audacity to act surprised when everything went south. Classic.
Then there was the part where Harry ended up with the Stone in his pocket without understanding how, survived a choking attempt by a possessed professor, and still somehow walked away feeling like he'd done something wrong.
Later, the Flamels' letter made everything worse and better at the same time.
Worse because Dumbledore had lied about it being destroyed.
Better because the Stone he'd risked his life over was a decoy.
Worse because the Flamels never wanted it near Hogwarts at all.
Better because they were touched Harry had returned it, even though he hadn't signed his name.
And yet, the worst realization came years afterward: his friends had been nudging him along that path the whole time—unknowingly or otherwise—whispering conclusions Dumbledore wanted him to reach, guiding him into danger with the confidence of people absolutely convinced they were right.
Then came the hardest truth of all: someone died every year.
First year, it had been Professor Quirrell. Harry had spent an entire summer convincing himself he'd done the poor man a mercy there at the end, Voldemort gnawing away at him like a parasite. But mercy or not, Harry had killed someone. Dumbledore tried to twist it into a life debt, but Harry had read up on those. Thoroughly. Ten books' worth. The old man met none of the criteria. Not even close.
And the fact that Dumbledore had waited—waited—to intervene until Harry was practically on the verge of passing out? That stuck in Harry's stomach like a cold stone.
Quirrell's death wasn't something Harry would ever forget. But it was the moment he'd realized the Headmaster wasn't the benevolent, twinkly-eyed guardian everyone believed him to be. He was a puppet master. And Harry? Harry had been one of his strings.
Well… not anymore.
Harry breathed out slowly, leaning back against the rough surface of his boulder. The air was warm, the neighborhood quiet, and the sky overhead brilliantly blue. But inside, where his thoughts churned, everything felt heavy.
This year would be different. He wasn't a clueless eleven-year-old anymore. He wasn't going to be nudged, maneuvered, flattered, or guilt-tripped into anything.
He was going back to Hogwarts.
But this time, he wasn't going as a pawn.
He was going as himself.
And the world—Dumbledore, Voldemort, destiny, whoever—would just have to deal with it.