Tears in the centre of a storm
It was a stormy day in September; all the students had retreated to the common rooms of their respective houses to brood over hot drinks the horror that is a Saturday spent trapped indoors. All the students that is, save one, a sixth year Gryffindor by the name of Harry Potter.
He, unlike other people, was not put off by the howling winds and curtains of rain surrounding Hogwarts. He was in fact, very happy. None knew where Harry went during storms, but there had always been rumours; some plausible and others more outlandish. None correct.
To even have a hope of knowing where he went, one would have to know about his life outside of Hogwarts, where he wasn't 'The-Boy-Who-Lived' or 'The-Chosen-One' but 'Boy' or 'Freak'. As it happened none of them had a clue, for they had never known the real Harry Potter. Nobody had...
It had all started when, as a small child, Harry had managed to appear on the roof of his school building after being chased by Dudley and his gang. While this earned him a severe beating from his Uncle and merited a two week stretch in the cupboard under the stairs, it also made him wonder. If he could learn to climb, to escape, would he finally be safe from his relatives? It was this thought that was responsible for the small smile resting on the dark-haired child's lips as he fell asleep, a rarity since his arrival in the Dursley household.
And so it was, since the day he was released from his confinement, he would practise climbing whenever he could, working through the pain of all the bruises, scrapes and blistered fingers. He was, after all, used to being in pain. During his earlier days, he had climbed into the Dursleys' attic; seeing a box marked 'Lily's Life' he had crossed the dusty slats, treading softly to avoid waking the sleeping Dursleys below. In this box, he had found a collection of his mother's diaries, along with various other items connecting him to the happy life he'd once had. He had hidden them away from his relatives in his cupboard, reverently perusing them many times since then. He learnt of the prophesy, of his role in the wizarding world, what he was to them, and who he could trust.
As the years passed, he grew leaner, stronger, better. The ability to scale buildings in seconds, jumping from roof to roof with an almost feline grace, was accentuated by his sharp emerald eyes and unruly black hair. Well toned, through years of hard exercise, and reserved from years of abuse from his despicable relatives, he knew how to plan ahead, but was still able to think on his feet, able to determine with ease what he could or could not do. He knew, however, that this should not – would not – be seen.
That is why there were, in essence, two Harrys. One was reserved, cunning, anticipating and planning for every eventuality. This Harry hated the Dursleys, plotting their downfall with a determination unseen in generations. The other Harry – the Harry the Wizarding World would meet – was open, guileless and completely impulsive, showing not a shred of forethought. He only wished for the Dursleys to acknowledge his humanity, to accept him as one of their family.
Having learned of the art of Leglimency, he practised occlumency exercises that his mother had recorded in her diary with great dedication. He saw a major flaw in the way that occlumency was achieved, sensing that rigid walls would easily crack under the weight of a stronger mind. He hid his true self inside the mind of the false Harry. This Harry wouldn't know occlumency; any leglimens could wander in, but would be unable to destroy anything due to the nature of his 'walls'. They would never suspect that this wasn't true mind of Harry. Of course, Fake Harry would never have been abused either, all the memories that could be viewed would be made, manufactured from the imagination.
No, for this Harry there would perhaps be too little food, the occasional half hearted swing of a saucepan. Fake Harry would not feel the belt biting through his skin, know the smell of burning flesh as each and every finger was slowly pressed onto the burning hob or the beatings that came afterwards for crying. No, thought Harry, better for him that he doesn't know. He would also have no memory of his climbing. At this thought Harry quirked a bitter-sweet smile; without his climbing, he would definitely not be here, lost in the abuse, and he would long have fallen, his wings broken by the daily abuse that dominated his life.
Instead he had learned to fly, to overcome his upbringing, escape it, running, racing with the wind, finding solace from his troubled past in the regular pounding of feet on the ground, in each graceful leap through the air, the wind running its blustery fingers through already ruffled hair. The rain a gentle caress, even as he left his haven, returning to yet another beating.
As his eleventh year approached, Harry spent more and more time on the rooftops that were the true home of his childhood, knowing that the years he spent at Hogwarts he would be closely watched by both friend and foe. It was always good to deceive your enemies, and if your friends weren't your friends, it certainly never hurt to have a few secrets. Life may have been hard on Harry but it had taught him a lot; he was no innocent. He knew of the darkness that can be found in other people, so he hid his many talents. He hid them away in the deep recesses of his mind along with the bruises and other injuries he collected on a daily basis, waiting for when the time is right, the day when he finally held all the cards. It was this thought, along with his climbing, that had got him through his childhood, sustaining him when his relatives failed to, these thoughts filled him up, assuaged his thirst even after days of no food or water.
When his birthday came, he was whisked away by the half giant Hagrid, playing Fake Harry so perfectly at times he had to remind himself, who he was, what he was here for. The subsequent days after his shopping trip through the winding streets of Diagon Alley were spent in a blur of pain, a result of beating after beating for being what he was born to be. And so it was that Harry didn't manage to escape Number Four until the day before he was due to leave.
He sat, eleven years old on the roof of a building, wind writhing round him, like some snake guardian watching over its charge, running its flickering tongue through the unruly hair that fell to overly thin, hunched shoulders, as their owner leaned into the wind. The boy relished in physical contact that wouldn't cause him pain. His world weary emerald eyes, too big in the thin face of their owner closed for once. A small smile crossing his face as the rain falls down, embracing him in warm summery water, washing away the tears that had been shed. This was how he remained, contemplating what his life was going to be, what it had been and then he stood, facing his future ready to do what he must.
There he stood, a malnourished eleven year old on the top of a building, outlined by the rising sun, ready to begin what had been planned for so long, what had been foretold, and what would be done. For a few short seconds, wings could be seen spreading from his back, outlined by a burning sun. Harry Potter would keep his wings; however hidden they may be...
Nobody at Hogwarts knew of this, and so he goes on; waiting until the time is right, when he will fulfil his destiny, seek his revenge and leave, flee everything. Just as he does everything else, save for the wind and the rain, the roll of thunder and flash of lightning. He escapes, for nobody can see your tears in the centre of the storm.
And when the storm is over, prophecy unravelled
He'll escape, run away, on the paths less travelled
Obligations gone, all the power then he'll hold
Finally free from them, wings unfold