Harry was stumped, completely and totally stupefied. 'Ipsa scienta potestas est,' it obviously wasn't English but that didn't narrow it down much. He had no education in any language other than English so the small child, now 8 years old, was sitting in his small cupboard pounding his head in frustration. All of his issues in life had answers. When a plant was wilting in the garden, he watered it. When Vernon had a headache, Harry slipped some aspirins in his meal to keep him from taking his pain out on him. But there was absolutely no way he could find out what the words meant until it hit him.
Mr. Doctor mentioned that a 'wise old man' said the phrase before him. And unless it was a pathetic dad joke (which might be the straw to break the camel's back for Harry's mental health), some historical figure must have said it first and been recorded! Harry almost gasped in joy at his own cleverness until he remembered that the Dursleys were fast asleep from the sound of Vernon's snoring.
Suddenly, a soft crack filled the air and was followed by a shimmering whoosh. Harry open his cupboard and stepped softly out to peek through the front window at the strange scene before him. Arabella Figg, the crazy cat lady from across the street, was talking with an old man in a strange bathrobe and his cat. The picture in front of him was so bizarre that he simply shook his head to clear it and lumbered back to his small cupboard to sleep. All the street lamps were so dark that he assumed it to be a trick of the light. No one heard the small snap that left the street empty. No one saw the man let the light back into the lamps. Privet Drive was as silent as the grave.
Harry was walking home the next day from the park when he strayed of his path. The library wasn't necessarily something that attracted him. In fact, he pushed it away after he lost food privileges for three days for beating Dudley's scores. But his heart pounded as he climbed the stone steps to the ancient building. He steeled himself and imagined Mr. Doctor behind him with his hand on his shoulder. He whispered that illustrious phrase to himself as he climbed each step. "Ipsa." One. "Scienta." Two. "Potestas." Three. "Este." He walked toward two large oak doors and opened one with a creak. He was treated by the smell of yellowing paper and spilt coffee. It had been so long since Harry had experienced such a wonderful sent that he felt light headed.
"Are you looking for anything specific, dear?" A middle aged woman with horn rimmed glasses peered at him with frosty blue eyes. Harry's eyes quickly took in everything he could about her before he opened his mouth. She had a nicotine stain on her index finger a irregular mark on her third finger on her left hand.
Divorced, Harry noted. Or a widow. And definitely a smoker.
"Yes ma'am," Harry meekly. "I'm having trouble finding a translation to a phrase I read somewhere."
"Oh of course! You've come to the right place." She quickly shuffled towards the isles and isles of books that called towards Harry.
"What exactly is the phrase needed to be translated?"
Harry repeated the words that he mumbled while he slept and did chores, words that he traced on the table cloth while he watched his barnyard looking family dig in to his perfectly crafted meal. Words that made him feel safe and strong. As he spoke, the librarian's eyes lit up behind her frames.
"My goodness I know that one by heart!" She cleared her throat and whispered as if it was the most important secret in the world: "Knowledge itself is power."
Harry grinned at the discovery. A sudden urge to consume every book in that library came over him. He decided to spend the rest of the day there and returned home to find his uncle on the front porch with a half-drank bottle of whiskey clutched in his meaty fist. A cloud of dread fell over Harry as he accepted what was coming. Vernon braced himself against the railing and gave a loud grunt, as if holding himself up took all of his strength.
"C'mere, boy!" he slurred. "Where th' hell've you been?"
Harry shifted from side to side and spoke softly, "The library, sir."
Vernon's face turned a shade of dark purple and he grabbed Harry by the raven mess on his head and drug him into the house. Harry cried out in surprise and Vernon swung his fist to catch Harry in the ribs. He groaned from the pain.
"Will you shut up, boy?! Th' neighbors'll hear ya!"
Harry was left face down on the carpet where guests wiped their feet before entering. The taste of dirt and sand made him remember that he forgot his duties before going to the library. He cursed himself for such an idiotic move. Whatever Vernon decided to do, he most certainly deserved for getting caught making such a stupid mistake. There was the sound of a metal buckle being undone. Thwap thwap thwap! The leather was yanked out of Vernon's belt loops. Harry's eyes were already watering as he squeezed them tight and braced himself for what was coming.
There was a whoosh as the belt buckle came down on Harry. Since Vernon was drunk and it was a wild swing, the metal lashed the nape of his neck. Harry immediately arched his back and let out a silent scream of agony. He bit his tongue to keep from crying and the metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth. He breathed heavily as Vernon continued for what felt like hours. Vernon was covered in sweat and stopped, completely exhausted.
"You'll fin'sh yur chores an' we won' hear a peep," he mumbled. "Un'rstand?"
Harry's teeth were gritted and his eyes full of pain as he nodded in understanding. This was his fault. If only he had been patient and waiting until he finished, he could've gone to the library and not had to suffer Vernon's belt. He staggered to his cupboard and rested for a minute and slid a book he has swiped out of his trousers. A book on Latin. He smiled as he turned one page after another, devouring the text and forgetting about Vernon and that damned belt.
Harry was ten now, and he learned how to juggle his schooling, chores, and studies. Latin, for some odd reason, was quite easy to master. He had moved on to French and dreamt of Paris and the amazing culture that he hoped to one day indulge in. He was currently curled up in a couch in the library reading a book about a wizards who battled dragons and kings who rescued damsels. He imagined himself in gold armor perched upon his noble steed. He charged into battle with a mighty battle cry and became a machine of death. He easily defeated the three-headed Dursley dragon and saved the beautiful princess.
"Harold," came the quiet call of the librarian. "Shouldn't you be headed home?"
He came to know her as Ms. Spencer. They had become quite close over the two years they'd known each other. She was, in fact, divorced and took Harry under her wing like her own child. She tutored him in quite a few subject like foreign language and maths. She even would bring him lunches and not let him go home empty handed. Because of this, Harry was not the scrawny boy he was before. Some might say he looked normal for his age. The nourishment combined with his daily routine allowed him to build a bit of muscle on his frame.
"I told you, Ms. Spencer," Harry mumbled. "Call me Harry."
"And I told you to call me Rachel." She look over her glasses at him and smirked. "It seems that neither of us are good at listening."
Harry rolled his eyes behind his book. "So it seems."
His eleventh birthday was coming up soon and he planned on spending it here, where he felt safe and welcome. Suddenly the door flew open and a bushy haired girl walked in holding hands with someone familiar.
"Mr. Doctor!" Harry cries before remembering where he was. The kind man squinted at him for a minute before laughing. He walked over to Harry and gave a small bow.
"Good to see you again, Master Harold." His eyes were full of mirth. "And to be clear, my name is not 'Doctor,' just a title."
"If you please, sir." Harry twiddled his fingers in nervousness. "I don't think you ever told me your name."
"Oh dear," he said as he slapped his palm to his forehead. "Well, let me introduce myself. My name is Dr. Daniel Granger."