Chapter 5

It was as if ten years of angering memories had been suddenly unlocked and he was feeling everything again and at once. All the times Dudley had pushed him down, beaten him, mocked him, belittled him. All the times he had lied to his parents or teachers about Harry so he would be punished or scolded for things he hadn't done, or the lies or threats he had told other kids so they wouldn't want or dare to be friends with Harry. All the gifts and privileges and hugs and praise he had received and flaunted while Harry had gotten none. The toys he had refused to share, the things he had taken just so Harry couldn't have them, the cruel pranks, the humiliations...

And now this. That letter had been literally his only ticket to other people like him, and Dudley had purposely destroyed it.

Something snapped inside Harry.

Self-restrain and strict control over his freakishness were forgotten. He no longer cared about anything that might happen as long as Dudley suffered so much that he came to regret every single thing he had ever done to or taken from Harry. The possibility of consequences didn't even cross his mind, there actually weren't any coherent thoughts inside his head at the moment.

He just wanted to make Dudley hurt until he cried and then some.

The magic felt different this time. Better. Stronger. And more personal, as if it came from a deeper place inside him and were intimately acquainted with and accepting of Harry's darkest thoughts and emotions. It urged him to free himself from any restraints or limits, to be who he truly was and do whatever he would, to take what he needed and wanted without guilt nor shame.

Nothing had ever felt this good. Not even remotely close. No amount of this feeling would ever be enough.

He had thought before that magic was intoxicating. That had been nothing.

He had thought before that he would have been disturbed by the sight and sounds of someone writhing in agony and screaming his lungs out; that he would have immediately rushed to help. Now, as he made Dudley pay for ten years of torment, all he felt was cold hate and all he wanted to rush was that sweet sense of power that kept flowing from his very core and coursing through his veins.

So enthralled he was by the experience that he barely noticed when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon burst into the kitchen and began fussing over their son, trying to get hold of his flailing limbs or to shut him up. He was too focused on Dudley as to pay them any attention, but it made the entire thing even sweeter to know that they were witnesses to their precious Dudders' suffering.

"It's the boy, Vernon!" he vaguely heard Aunt Petunia shrieking. "Stop him, stop him!"

Harry's trance broke when Uncle Vernon stepped into his line of sight, but before he could get his bearings and catch up with the threat fat fingers closed around his neck and a heavy blow was landed at the side of his head.

"Stop that freakishness at once!" roared Uncle Vernon, his face angrier than Harry had ever seen it. "Leave my son alone, you hear me? Stop—that—nonsense—now!"

He accompanied each word with a new blow, and by the fourth one Harry's mind had completely cleared and pain had brought with it full awareness of his dire situation. He was in so much trouble! Even if Uncle Vernon didn't choke him to death or beat him to a pulp, Harry could expect a terrible punishment for daring to use his freakishness against Dudley. He would never again see the light of day!

Harry was about to start begging for leniency when he suddenly remembered that he wasn't a powerless kid anymore. He could smash glass and make people scream with just a wish, and even though he hadn't tried he felt sure that he could reduce the house to dust if he wanted. No one would be able to keep him locked up anymore, and no one would ever hurt him again!

Uncle Vernon let out a yelp of pain and let go of Harry's neck as if he had burned his hands. The next moment he was flying backwards through the air and crashing against the refrigerator, his head hitting the counter on his way to the floor.

"Vernon! Vernon!" shrieked Aunt Petunia leaving a twitching Dudley to run to him. "Vernon!"

But Uncle Vernon didn't answer nor moved at all. There was blood oozing from under his hair.

"Vernon! Vernon! Oh, God, no, please, Vernon! Vernon!"

"Mum?" called Dudley weakly, his voice rough after all the screaming. Harry noticed that he was crying, and also that he looked —and smelled— as if he had soiled himself.

"Step away from him, Dudley!" yelled Aunt Petunia hysterically, turning to look at Harry with wild eyes full of rage and anguish. "You killed him! You vicious freak hurt my son and killed my husband! I should have let you freeze to death that day! Freak! Murderer!"

Dudley was dragging himself towards his parents, sending terrified glances at Harry every half a second and crying for his mum and dad. Aunt Petunia kept yelling things at Harry or at her unresponsive husband while tears ran down her distraught face. The whole scene felt unreal, and Harry watched it with odd detachment as if it were something happening far far away and he had nothing to do with it even though some part of his numb brain knew that he had done this. He had hurt these people. People who suddenly didn't look as deserving of suffering as he had thought they were.

But what about Harry? Had he deserved to suffer as much as he had at their hands? Did their tears wash away their cruelties? Whatever he had done, did he deserve to be looked at with the purest loathing, to be promised the nastier retaliations imaginable by his own aunt? Things had gotten out of control, but nothing of this would have happened if Harry had been treated fairly, if Dudley had not hurt him first in a thousand different ways, if Aunt Petunia had loved him and Uncle Vernon had not manhandled and locked him up all his life.

It wasn't right that they should be playing the part of victims when they had always been the victimizers.

It hurt to be told that he deserved to have his soul sucked from his body or be locked forever in a place without hope.

And it frightened him out of his numbness to be threatened with a penal institution or jail.

Aunt Petunia's mention of the police sent Harry's body into high alert. He wasn't sure he could fight off the police with his magical powers. What if they shot him before he could do anything? What if they knocked him out and locked him somewhere he couldn't escape from? What if Dudley told them that he was a wizard and he was executed for witchcraft like the witches of Salem? (which now he realized might have actually happened) What if they tried to make experiments with him or to take the magic out of him?

Each possibility terrified him more than the last, and in just a few seconds Harry had worked himself up to a mighty panic. He knew he would find no protection here, on the contrary. Aunt Petunia would gleefully hand him over to the police or set his stake on fire herself if she were given the chance. Dudley would dance around him while he burned.

Next thing he knew he was running. Running for his life and for his freedom and for his magic. Running like he had never run before not even from Dudley and his gang.

He ran out of the house, and down Privet Drive, and past Mrs. Figg with her crutches. Up Wisteria Walk and through the alleyway that connected it to Magnolia Crescent.

Harry ran, and ran, and kept on running.


By the time he stopped, it was already dark and he had no idea where he was. His chest and feet hurt, as well as his head where Uncle Vernon had hit him. He was famished, exhausted and drenched with cold sweat.

Despite all the distance he had put between him and Aunt Petunia, his fear had not abated one bit and he kept expecting police cars to corner him at every turn. A lot of people had seen him run by, after all, and probably all the police stations of the area had been notified that there was a murderous freak on the loose. It would be harder for people to spot him at night, but what if they came after him with hounds and search parties like in the movies? Even if he managed to take a bus or something to throw off his pursuers, it would be hard to stay off the radar forever. What if they put photos of him in the news? Then he would be recognized anywhere in the country.

When he began shivering and his stomach growled, it suddenly hit him that he was now homeless, in addition to a fugitive. That meant no roof and no food at all. He hadn't had much at the Dursleys', but it had been something. Cold and damp as he was now, he would have welcomed his cozy cupboard and a change of clothes. And the possibility of breakfast in the morning...

He pushed away those useless thoughts. That was all over. Now Harry was on his own, it was up to him to keep himself fed and warm. And he had magic, that should be enough to get himself what he needed.

Unfortunately, he already knew that he couldn't conjure up food. That had been the second thing he had attempted to do with his magic, but no matter how many ways he had tried or how hard he had wished nothing eatable had ever appeared. Either it wasn't possible or —more likely— Harry would need someone to explain him how to do it.

The thought made him want to cry. Would he be able to go to the magical school now? Dudley had burned the letter and the train ticket. Of course Harry had memorized every last word inside that envelope, and he supposed it was possible he could get another ticket if he managed to contact the school or if he found the platform in King's Cross, but after what had happened with Uncle Vernon... What if the Headmaster of the school heard about it? Surely they would not want a murderer as one of their students. Harry could always try to explain that it had been an accident, at least the killing someone part (he had never meant to kill anyone and he didn't think he had wanted Uncle Vernon dead —at most if he had planned to do something to him it would have been some fair retribution like forcing him to live inside a cupboard with only a small meal a day and no television), but what if they didn't believe him or didn't care?

Should he risk at all going to King's Cross on September 1st? Perhaps he should directly give the whole thing up and go his own way, live the rest of his life in hiding under a fake name and away from anyone who could recognize him. It sounded like the most prudent thing to do, but the mere idea was like a knife to the heart. Would he ever get the chance of meeting other people like him if he let this opportunity pass?

Another shiver reminded him that he had more urgent problems to consider at the moment, so he pushed away all thoughts of the magical school too and focused on what he needed to do right now. Although food would be nice, it wasn't his first priority since he knew he could survive for several days without eating. Water he had already had some in the last play park he had ran across, and he could produce that with his magic anyway (a discovery that had cost him a very uncomfortable night in his wet cupboard).

What he most needed was money, he thought as he walked past a bus stop. That had been the third thing he had tried to conjure up, also with no results. Making gold from other metals might still be possible (Harry had not had any metals inside his cupboard to experiment with), but he didn't think that would be of much use to him in his current situation. He couldn't pay the bus with pure gold, after all (at least he didn't think so), and it would draw too much attention to go around trying to sell a gold bar. While making gold was definitely an interesting possibility to explore in the long term, right now he needed normal cash.

And if he couldn't conjure up money, then he could think of only one other way to get some.


Despite feeling pressed by time, Harry took some time to carefully choose the house. The first requirement was that the owners must not be home, since he wanted to just rob, not mug. He had considered mugging, but it made him sick the idea of assaulting some innocent passerby and besides he wasn't sure he could pull it off. Tiny and scrawny as he was, his only advantage during a confrontation would be his magic, but he couldn't very well threaten anyone with it like he had threatened Dudley (no one would believe him, for starters) and he didn't have enough control nor experience yet as to be reasonably sure he could use it against someone without killing them, making them writhe in pain, getting hurt himself in the process or at the very least give away what he was.

So to his relief mugging people was not a viable option at the moment. Robbing a store also seemed too risky, what with the possibility of alarms, guards or surveillance cameras, so Harry had decided to rob a house instead and had chosen one that looked promising.

There weren't cars parked in the driveway and all the lights except the ones outdoor were off, which strongly suggested no one was home. There were no dogs to raise the alarm nor watchful neighbours nosing about at this hour, and the house was mostly obscured by trees or bushes so any passersby would not see much. Also, everything looked posh and expensive, so Harry figured they could survive the loss of a few things and probably not even notice.

Harry didn't have many moral qualms about stealing from people who plainly had more than they needed, but he felt nervous nonetheless, afraid of being caught committing burglary by freakish means. He had to do this precisely to avoid being caught, however, so his hesitation really made no sense and he soon overruled it and forced himself to cross the street and sneak towards the back of the house just like he had done at the Robinsons'.

He knocked first and listened carefully for voices or barks, but the house was definitely empty of people or dogs. Taking a deep breath, Harry placed a hand over the door. If this didn't work he would try to vanish some window's glass —hopefully with more control and precision than the last time—, but he wanted to give it a go to the lock first. The idea had come to him in his cupboard as an alternative method for getting food (Aunt Petunia would probably not have noticed if he had done some judicious forage in her kitchen at night), but he had not dared to try it in case he accidentally vanished or broke the door or the lock and had to explain it later to the Dursleys.

In his first attempt he tried to reach for the same sweet, incredibly powerful magic he had experienced earlier that day while punishing Dudley, but to his frustration it wasn't anywhere to be felt. Instead he found his ordinary magic (he would have never thought he would ever call any magic ordinary, but there it was), and after a few more unsuccessful attempts to get in touch with some deeper source he finally resigned himself to use what he had available. It wasn't that he didn't like his normal magic, not at all, but it could not compare to that other feeling...

He shook his head to clear it from the intoxicating memory and focused on the door again, willing it to open. And to his surprize the door instantly answered with the telling 'click' of a lock being unlocked. Magic definitely was getting easier, he reflected with satisfaction as he pushed open the door and slipped quietly inside, relieved that his entry didn't trigger any burglar alarms.

Harry took a moment to process the fact that he had just broken into someone else's home and to conjure up a subtle light before springing into action. The owners might return at any moment, so he must be as quick as possible and be ready to run off at a second notice. And he must prioritize. First he needed to find money, then if he still had time he would get food, and finally clothes if there was anything inside this house that fit him.

Extraordinary as it had been to fully feel his magic inside him for the first time, Harry thought that this one might be a more life-altering experience. He had never been allowed to choose anything for himself when he went shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley, and he had not been allowed to touch anything in the house unless it was to clean it, so having a blank permission from himself to take whatever he wanted made him tremble deep inside with a confusing mixture of fear, excitement, resentment and anguish. He almost didn't dare touching the money he found, part of him was expecting to be yelled at when he opened the refrigerator and picked a yoghurt, and he had difficulty swallowing the lump in his throat when he saw a coat hanged over the back of a chair and realized that he could claim it for himself. His foraging went a lot slower than it should have gone because he kept being knocked over by these overwhelming flashbacks and realizations.

There wasn't —or he didn't manage to find— too much money in the house, but he thought it was enough to pay for a few buses or even a taxi. Food there was plenty, and he ate as much as he could hold and filled a bag with more before moving on to the next item in his list: clothes. It seemed like there lived two children in the house, a girl of about Harry's age judging by the photographs, and a boy several years older. Some of the boy's clothes fit Harry about as well as Dudley's did, but he took them anyway thinking that he might be able to shrink them the way he had accidentally shrunk Dudley's ugly sweater, and very much preferring clothes without holes no matter the size. He only hesitated a second before going over the girl's wardrobe too in case there was something he could use, and this proved an excellent idea since she happened to have really nice boots that fit Harry perfectly. He also 'borrowed' one of her sweaters, a scarf and a pair of gloves.

All in all, he didn't steal too many stuff, mainly because there was limited space inside his new bag and also because he didn't want to carry too much weight in case he had to run. The most valuable things he had acquired he was wearing or carrying in his pockets, including the only object that he had not taken out of necessity but out of self-indulgence: a walkman. He probably shouldn't have, but he couldn't resist the temptation of giving himself some sort of birthday present. He would like to turn eleven with music in his ears, magic in his heart and freedom all around him.

Harry stopped in front of a large mirror on his way out, examining his reflection critically. New clothes aside, he looked just the same as ever: messy black hair, bright green eyes, round glasses held together with Scotch tape, and a funny scar on his forehead partially covered by his fringe. That scar was the only thing Harry liked about his own appearance, but he realized that it was a very distinctive mark that together with the glasses and the hair, plus the darkening bruises, made him easily recognizable as Harry Potter, the freak that had murdered his uncle.

He should do something about that, he thought as he closed his eyes and reached once more for that seemingly endless source of power inside him.


This chapter was posted on Apr 2, 2022