Betrayal
It's not that you hurt me. It's that you saw me, and turned away.
I was seven when my cousin broke my arm. I was seven and I still believed in justice.
"What do you mean, apologize?" I didn't scream. I was sure I had misheard the nurse. I should have. I hadn't.
"Now dear," The woman smiled down at me, like some benevolent god "It wasn't very nice to insult your cousin, now was it? Don't you think you should say you're sorry?" I gaped, shocked, disbelieving and hurt. Leaning forward from my seat on the counter, I tried to make her understand.
"He shoved me down the stairs. The stairs! He hurt me. Make him apologize!" I argued, like my words could sway this woman. Like I could change this impossible cruelty she inflicted upon me. The woman stared at me like one might some strange animal.
"Yes dear, but you provoked him, didn't you? It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't done that," I know now that this woman was not unique. That hundreds- thousands- of children before me have faced such cheerful cruelty. I didn't then. I never had and never since experienced such an intense feeling of loneliness, of otherness, of shear and total isolation. It struck like a blow, that I was alone, without anyone to save me. Without anyone who would even deign to try.
"Fine," I snapped, covering my betrayal in anger. And then the second blow hit, with greater force then the first.
"Now, don't be like that! It's your responsibility to say sorry, you shouldn't sulk about it," She chided. For me, this was the breaking point, being told not only to apologize to someone who hurt, but also not to feel angry about it! Not only what to do but what to feel. And this, this was the crossing point, the point of no return. I could yield or- or what? Or I could fight, give up all hope of justice and just protect myself. In the end, it wasn't even a choice. I could not give in. I could not give up my soul.
I will never be this helpless again. Never.
This is my attempt to seriously show how Harry's life at Dursley's was like. Maybe this didn't happen. But the lack of control, the awful injustice of the time? Harry hates being helpless. I can see why. If you think I'm great, tell me. If you think I'm off my rocker, tell me that too.