…and it is the hollowing sadness of the fiercest of grief;
/
When Harry arrived back at Number 4 that night, he felt like he was walking on air. He had made it to the second round! He wondered if Aunt Petunia would congratulate him like she had Dudley when Dudley had come home with a C- instead of an F.
It wasn't to be, unfortunately.
Dudley, having gotten jealous of the attention Harry was receiving, had fibbed and said that Harry had stolen his pellet gun—which Dudley had sat on and bent the muzzle—and gotten Harry promptly thrown into his cupboard once he got home.
It was a harsh reminder of his place in the Dursley household. It had gotten better, but he was still an outsider, a freak.
And as he sat in his cupboard that night, his belly growling and feeling like it was gnawing at his backbone, he realized that he would never be like Dudley in the eyes of his Aunt and Uncle. He would always be the outsider, the freak that they didn't want. No matter what he did, he would never earn their approval, no matter how hard he tried.
It surprised him how much that revelation hurt; he had known this before, known it and had accepted it. But he had thought…
…it didn't matter what he had thought. It wasn't relevant anymore.
So he hunkered down and waited for the night to pass, trying his best to ignore the emptiness of his belly and the sting of his new knowledge.
He didn't belong with the Dursleys, would never belong and had never belonged.
It made him wonder if he would ever find a place where he belonged and was accepted.
He didn't really think so. After all, he was a freak.