Hi Fun Kou Gai (ひふんこうがい)
righteous, miserable anger, a frustration and despair over a situation that seems terrible but cannot be changed
Dreams were sacred to Harry—it was the one escape from reality that the Dursley family couldn't take from him. In his sleep, he was free to dream of a life where he lived with his parents, loved and cared for but not as spoiled as Dudley had been. There were times where he imagined that he was a character in one of the books that Mr. Anderson would read to the class. He took Sophie's place in The BFG and saved the children of England, took the boy's place and planned to eradicate all witches with his grandmother's help in The Witches, and got to live with Miss. Honey—it was odd that his teacher for Year 1 was also named Miss. Honey and made Harry wonder if he missed his chance to live with her—after getting rid of Miss. Trunchbull in Matilda.
Some of Harry's dreams didn't come from a life he wished he could've lived or from the books Mr. Anderson would read to the class. When Sir was particularly harsh with his beatings, Harry would dream of what he suspected to be memories. It was as though his dreams wanted him to chin up and let him see how loved Harry was before his parents died. While those supposed-memories were always too blurry for him to get a clear view of how his parents looked, he was satisfied with hearing their voices—they always spoke softly, gently, with affection apparent in their voices and love for each other evident in their tones. Even the memories he strangely associated with them had his chest swell with pride and bubble with warmth.
Other times, Harry would dream of the wind gently caressing his face, the thrumming of a motor, and a gruff voice coming from above. When he let his imagination run wild, he liked to imagine that he was flying over London in a motorcycle driven by a beefy man, tucked in the crook of the man's arm like a baby. It was a funny thought but one that Harry couldn't shake off. The most absurd conclusions could often be spot on, and given that Harry suspected that he could use magic, it seemed very likely. There was no other explanation as to why anything related to fantasy and magic wasn't allowed in the house, his wounds could heal overnight, and food and water appeared in his cupboard during his darkest hours.
The worst dreams were of his parents' deaths. It was odd how he would only dream of their deaths on Halloween; it was their death anniversary and that all but cemented his belief that Harry would wield magic. He already knew that his parents didn't die in a car crash like Sir and Ma'am constantly told him in harsh tones. Harry figured that they still perished in an accident, just not a car accident, but one related to magic. Harry later learned that someone had murdered his parents in a dream of all things; he managed to shatter three of Ma'am's prized porcelain and earned himself an hour of flogging and wire strangling, and two days without meals.
It was one thing to know that his parents were dead, but to hear and witness their deaths was another thing entirely. At the very least, he was right in that his parents' deaths had something to do with magic. His parents died protecting him to their last breath, and it filled Harry up with joy. Sir and Ma'am always told him that his parents detested him and wished he was never born; even though he knew not to take their words with a grain of salt, hearing how hated and unwanted he was made him slowly believe in their words. But his parents loved him so dearly that they were willing to die for him, sacrificed themselves for him to survive—it was humbling to know that Harry was loved so fiercely enough that his parents would rather die so that he could live instead of living without him.
Harry was well aware that he was cut from a different cloth from other people, most especially the Dursleys. It wasn't that he thought himself inherently superior to them or simple arrogance, but rather a fact of the matter. He would describe his strange powers as a peculiarity since there simply wasn't a logical and scientific explanation to what he currently knew of his capabilities. The timeframe in which he was able to recover from his injuries was beyond that of a normal being. That being said, Harry wouldn't be surprised if the supernatural forces were inolved—in that supernatural meant things that weren't natural, not the paranormal sorts.
His greatest source of proof was his seemingly perfect recollection of things. It wasn't as simple as eidetic memory because even with the so-called photographic memory, one still needed to dedicate the time to memorize things and had to rummage through their mind to actually pull up the memory. But in Harry's case, he simply had to look at things and the moment he thought of it again, he could just recall it in an instant. The oddity that was his mind was stranger even, that he could recall his first and earliest memory with perfect recollection.
"Lily! He's here! Take Harry with you and run!" his father yelled in panic. He was tall and lean with muscle, lightly tan and wore silver-framed glasses. He had hazel eyes and messy, dark brown hair that curled up at the ends, which made him look effortlessly suave. Harry inherited his father's need for glasses and hopelessly messy hair. "That bastard's breaking down your emergency wards like it's nothing!"
"How? The Fidelius Charm is supposed to be unbreakable! What did that bastard do to Peter?" Lily asked in anguish.
James looked frustrated and extremely conflicted. He chewed on his lip until he let out a harsh yell. "Lily," he began in a quiet voice, uncharacteristic given the panic he experienced not a few moments before. "The only way to get around the Fidelius Charm is if the Secret Keeper willingly gave it out. You should know this."
Lily looked as though she was a few seconds away from a meltdown. She visibly steeled herself and nodded her head. "The secret is literally within in the soul so the Imperius Curse, Veritaserum, compulsion spells, everything—they're all useless."
"Bloody hell, I should've known Remus would never betray us." A few tears fell from James before he inhaled deeply. He walked over to Lily and kissed the crown of baby-Harry's forehead. Gently stroking baby-Harry's cheek, he smiled forlornly. "Hey, little Bambi. Daddy loves you, did you know that? So don't be scared. Mommy's got you. Daddy's just going to make sure you get out all right, okay?"
Lily remained silent even as her brow furrowed and her body tensed. Her shoulders were stiff and her knuckles were white; tears were freely running down her cheeks even as she mustered the inner strength to face James with a loving smile. James settled her into an embrace, tight enough to convey what he just couldn't muster into words, yet loose enough for Harry. A good-bye hug.
"Don't be an idiot and leave Harry without a father." I love you, so please come back.
"I won't let that Dark Tosser touch either of you." I'm scared, but my love for you gives me courage.
Lily was trembling and ran up the staircase. There was a resounding crash and the sounds of shattering glass and splintered wood. Harry could hear the sparks fly in the air and the yelling of odd phrases—it sounded like sophisticated gibberish. The Bastard yelled out an "Avada Kedava, " and he heard the sound of a body hit the floor. Lily let out an anguished wail, and Harry knew it wasn't the Bastard's body that hit the floor.
"Bloody hell! He put up anti-Apparition wards and anti-Portkey wards! The Floo Network's down as well."
Lily bit her lip and ran inside what appeared to be Harry's nursery. The wallpaper was written all over with strange, boxy squiggles—some were dark red, and others were dull brown, as though it was blood used as a writing medium instead of ink or paint. His mother placed him in a crib and caressed his cheek gently, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hand shook, and she looked at Harry as though it would be the last time she would be getting a good look at his face.
"This was a last resort. Mummy's sorry, but she has to do this. Uncle Padfoot will take good care of you. Mummy and Da love you so much. We don't want to see you until you give us lots of grandchildren, okay?" The door was blasted open, and Lily choked down a sob before facing the Bastard. There was a fierce look in her eyes, and Harry knew she wasn't going to go down without a fight.
The Dark Tosser entered the room and with a wave of his hand, Lily's stick—wand—flew across the room and was grabbed out of the air by a pale, disfigured hand. "Step aside, girl. I only want the boy. I'll spare your life since one of my loyal followers asked it of me," the Bastard said in a raspy voice.
Lily sobbed and shielded Harry from the Bastard with her body. "No, no! Take me, please! Don't kill him! Take me!"
The Bastard didn't bother with trying to convince her any longer. There was a stick of polished wood clasped in his bony hand that he pointed towards Harry. "Avada Kedava!"
A flash of bright green light left the stick. There was a scream of terror from his mother—not for herself, but for Harry—and his mother fell to the ground in front of his crib. Her eyes were empty and glassy, skin drained of color, and her lips were already turning blue. The Bastard pointed the stick at Harry and repeated the words. Another flash of green shot towards him, and there was no one to shield him this time. The wallpaper began to glow ominously, bright red light reflecting off the strange, boxy squiggles. The moment the green light, brilliant and blinding, hit his temple, the writing glowed intensely. It peeled off the wallpaper and began to circle the Bastard, still burning red and growing in intensity.
The writing wrapped around the Bastard like a possessed coil of rope. It burned through the Bastard's clothes and seared his pale skin. His blood bubbled from the sheer heat of the writing, and the Bastard screamed in agonizing pain. The red glow that the boxy squiggles emitted brightened until Harry had to close his eyes from how painful the intensity of it was. There was a deafening explosion that had his ears ringing painfully. When Harry opened his eyes, the house was smoking, and the roof was gone. The wall behind him had blown apart and what remained of the Bastard were ashes and burning pieces of his black garb.
Harry knew that something about him made the Dursleys reject him so deeply tht there had to be a reason. People just didn't hate so strongly without an equally strong reason. People feared the unknown and fear was one of the greatest motivating factors which pushed people to do detestable enough things which they believed were entirely justified. If Harry didn't understand the strangeness that essentially defined him, it was no wonder that the Dursleys treated him in such a way, perhaps in a misguided attempt to drive out his "freakishness" as Petunia loved to call it.
If the Dursleys put more thought into it—though Harry wouldn't put it past them to be uncapable of gathering their bearings enough to form coherent thoughts—then they would've realized that it was far better in their interests to treat him with even a modicum of the respect he deserved as a human being.
At the very least, Harry wouldn't feel the least bit guilty for what he planned to put them through. While an eye for an eye made the whole world blind, a quote supposedly from Mahatma Ghandi, the man believed that Indians were inherently superior to Blacks, that the Jews should've committed mass suicide to shame the Nazi government, and was a hypocite of the highest grade. Harry was only going to finish what the Dursley couldn't; he was still a child so he could afford to resort to childish tactics. His parents sacrificed themselves for him so he was confident that they wouldn't mind how he would live his life. Even if they did, they were already dead, so there was nothing they could do about until Harry joined them in the afterlife.
He still hadn't lost the desperate yearning for a family, but he accepted that he probably would never find a family like his own. There weren't many that were willing to die for their child. Harry was sure that for all that Sir and Ma'am loved to spoil Dudley, they would sooner abandon Dudley than sacrifice themselves like Harry's parents had done for him. He didn't care about making his parents proud anymore. The dead would stay dead, and no amount of wishing would change that. Harry would live his life the way he wanted—without anyone's expectations thrown on him or their image of how he should live his life. He was tired of being someone else's plaything. The Dursley family should've put more thought into how they treated him. They saw him as though he was a monster, so a beast he would give them.
And maybe . . . just maybe, if the desperate yearning that he felt in the depths of his very soul could finally be sated, he hoped with all his might that whoever he found wouldn't reject him—saw him for the monster he was and looked past it. He was just Harry, the little orphan boy locked up in the cupboard under the stairs. All he wanted was wholesome acceptance, for someone to look past the labels that were plastered over him, layered over the years, until few cared to dig deep for the boy under the masks.
But he knew better than to hope for someone who would never exist. He was still a freak—a monster—and freaks don't deserve anything.