A.N. — Poetry's long been a passion of mine, and I've always meant to do a poem chapter before now. Instead, the main character of the series gets this particular first in this collection. Happy birthday, Harry James Potter, the boy-who-I-wrote-too-many-drabbles-for.
212. Harry Potter
He sometimes thought himself still the boy
trapped in the cupboard under the stair,
playing quiet and alone with a discarded toy,
wishing for parents who were no longer there.
Longing for love, or just some new clothes,
but receiving none from those charged with his care,
instead heaped with scorn and physical blows
because of magic, which he was not made aware.
When his salvation came and broke down the door,
at last he could take a breath of fresh air,
but his brand new world turned out the same as before —
could (would) Harry find a home somewhere?