19 June, 1989
"But uncle, where am I supposed to go?"
Vernon's face went an alarming shade of plum, the kind of color a doctor would politely describe as "concerning." "I don't care, you little freak!" he barked. "I just want you out of this house before the Howards arrive. The Bolson account is too important to risk even stuffing you into the cupboard. Now get out!"
Harry flinched at the volume—Uncle Vernon's voice hit like a physical shove—and backed away before the man could actually follow through with one. Vernon didn't hit him often, not anymore, but Harry had learned early that "not often" still meant "possible." One trip to the emergency room with a broken arm had been enough for both of them. The hospital staff had asked too many questions, and Harry still remembered Uncle Vernon's tight, furious smile as he lied through his teeth.
After that, Vernon had switched to tactics that didn't leave visible marks: cold words, smaller meals, that disappointed glare he wore like a badge of honor. Somehow, Harry found those things hurt in ways a broken bone never quite could.
Still, Harry slipped out the front door without another word. Better to obey than give Vernon an excuse to teach a lesson.
The park was dark when Harry finally stopped walking. The kind of dark that made the world feel muffled, like someone had wrapped the whole town in cotton. The sun was long gone, and the rising moon washed the playground in soft, pale grey. Harry sat on the swing, gently rocking back and forth. Each creak of the metal chains sounded louder than it should have—too loud, actually.
It took a long time for him to notice the strangeness: no cars in the distance, no murmuring voices from the nearby houses, no breeze in the trees. No owls hooting. No cats yowling. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath.
If this had been a horror movie, this would be the part where the audience yelled at the character to run.
Harry, however, was too busy feeling small and tired and a little bit broken to notice.
He kicked weakly at the dirt beneath the swing, watching his shoe leave faint grooves. He really did try—tried so hard—to be good enough, quiet enough, helpful enough. But somehow he always managed to do something wrong. If his homework was too good, he was a show-off. If Dudley tripped over his own feet, Harry was blamed for being "sneaky." If Harry breathed too loudly during dinner, Vernon would glare at him like he'd done something unforgivable.
Everyone believed the Dursleys. Teachers. Neighbors. Doctors. Anyone who mattered. No one ever questioned why this tiny, underfed boy might be getting blamed for Dudley's… artistic interpretation of "being a menace."
It would be years before Harry learned the truth—that buried inside the magic protecting him was a poison drop of Voldemort's hatred, twisting perceptions, nudging people toward the Dursleys' lies. It was supposed to shield him from the Dark Lord; instead it shielded his abusers from suspicion.
Only those who genuinely cared for him—really, truly cared—could push through that fog of subtle magic. And as a child sitting under the moon on a rusty swing, Harry had no idea such a thing even existed.
Right now, he was just a lonely boy in a silent park, wondering what exactly he had done to make the world dislike him so much.
He let out a shaky sigh. "Happy birthday to me," he whispered, though it wasn't his birthday. It just felt like the sort of thing a sad kid should say on a swing at night.
And the darkness, thick and heavy around him, didn't bother to disagree.