Chapter Text
One day Harry would hit back.
One day he’d be brave enough to stand his ground.
But that day wasn’t today.
Today was another losing day.
A day of being accused of things he hadn’t done. Of being called mean and hurtful names. Of going hungry.
A day with no friends. A day of pain. And a day filled with running.
And run he did.
Little Harry Potter tore down the terraced street like the devil himself was on his heels, scuffed trainers slapping the tarmac, baggy hand-me-down trousers flapping round his legs, and the wind snatching at his too-big t-shirt.
The smell of petrol and chip fat hung in the summer air, but all he could taste was the hot, coppery tang of blood in his mouth.
Behind him, Dudley and his gang of red-faced followers were bellowing and puffing, their footsteps thudding against the pavement.
Harry grinned for half a second – Dudley never moved quicker than a waddle unless pudding was involved.
Of course, thinking that had to be bad luck. His foot landed wrong as he jumped the kerb, his ankle twisting sharply. Pain shot up his leg and he stumbled, the world tipping, until his chin smacked the asphalt with a bone-jarring thud.
The sting was instant – both forearms scraped raw, knees throbbing, tongue bitten so hard he could taste the blood properly now. He made a small, pathetic sound of “ow” before the laughter behind him grew louder.
Harry pushed himself up, grit sticking to his palms, and darted left, shoving himself into the narrow cut-through between two overgrown gardens. Nettles slapped at his shins as he ran, the smell of damp earth and compost bins filling his nose.
Then – a dead end.
He skidded to a stop, heart hammering in his throat.
When he turned, Dudley was already there, blocking the only way out. His cousin’s face was red and shiny, his grin wide and mean.
Harry would’ve loved to say something just then – something sharp and clever, the sort of thing heroes in telly shows said before the bad guys backed away.
But all that came out were gasps and ragged wheezes, each breath clawing at his chest.
His tummy cramped so hard it felt like someone was twisting it up from the inside. His knees felt wobbly, his arms shook, and no matter how hard he told himself not to, his whole body was already bracing for the hurt that was coming.
He remembered the first real hurt – proper hurt – he’d ever had.
A couple of years back, when he’d just started primary, the Missus had taught them all about full names. Harry had liked the sound of his – Harry James Potter – and maybe he’d liked it too much, because he went round telling everyone. “Hullo, I’m Harry James Potter!” to anyone who’d listen.
Dudley’s “reason” (if you could call it that) for what happened next was that Harry was “bleedin’ big-headed and needed to shut his trap.” The next thing Harry knew, he was tumbling headfirst down the school stairs.
The crack of his wrist hitting the floor was a sound he still heard sometimes in his nightmares. At first, he’d thought it was just like other hurts – like the gnawing ache in his belly when he hadn’t eaten since yesterday, or the dizzy thump of walking into the kitchen doorframe because he was too thirsty to see straight.
Harry knew well the pain of being called “freak,” and “useless,” and “a waste of space.” He knew the quiet, constant ache of being unwanted.
But Harry had not known the pain of breaking a bone before then.
That pain was different.
It made him sick right there on the floor. Later, when the doctor twisted his wrist back into place, he’d cried so much his face went blotchy for hours.
After that, Dudley made sure he learned every sort of physical pain there was to learn.
… And Harry became ‘just’ Harry.
Because no matter how much Harry wanted to be the sort of boy who didn’t care, who stood tall and glared back, there was still a small, shivering part inside him that always, always remembered, and obeyed.
“Look at him,” Piers snorted. “Bleeding all over like a stuck pig.”
The others laughed. Dudley stepped forward, smirking. “What’s the matter, freak? Can’t even stand up straight without tripping over your feet?”
Harry flinched.
His knees stung, warm blood soaking into his trousers and making the cloth stick tight. His arms were raw where the skin had been scraped off, his face ached like someone had slammed a door into it, and every breath seemed to make his teeth hurt. Each swallow tasted like metal.
Then Dudley bent down, grabbed a splintery fence plank, and swung it through the air. The others copied him, picking up bits of wood and broken garden tools.
“Let’s see if the freak can still run,” Piers taunted.
Harry’s chest locked tight. His heart pounded in his ears.
If they started swinging… Harry wouldn’t die – …surely not?
Either way, no one was coming. No one would save him.
He needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
Anywhere but here.
The world around him went strange the moment the thought crossed his mind – colours too bright, edges too sharp. His skin fizzed, every nerve buzzing as if he were made of lightning.
The air pressed in on him, then whipped outwards, the pressure so intense it made his ears pop.
With a sound like a giant bubble bursting, Harry vanished – ripping a chunk of the fence and the earth beneath him into a swirling void.
Dudley and his gang froze, staring at the empty space where the other boy had just been – confusion clear across their faces.
Harry Potter had gotten away.
(Far away, in the humid forests of Albania, a shadow of a man – a mere sliver of soul, the faint spectre of the once-feared Lord Voldemort – felt a violent pull on his magic. He could not resist – could not fight it. In an instant, he was drained, erased, and snuffed out like a candle.
Thus, one prophecy found its end, while another – far away and elsewhere – had only just begun.)
***
Harry woke to a fierce, blinding light pressing down on his face.
He screwed up his eyes, blinking fast before throwing up a hand to block the glare. The sun was hot – proper hot, like the kind of heat that melted the paint on his uncle’s car during summer days – and it stabbed at his watering eyes until he had to turn away.
Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as the movement tugged at the grazes on his elbows and knees. The ground beneath him was hard-packed and scratchy with bits of grit.
He sat there for a moment, squinting around, trying to work out where he was.
Everywhere he looked there was green – thick, fancy-looking green, not the trimmed hedges and square lawns of Privet Drive.
It was also a bit dark and twisty. The air smelled like moss, and every rustle in the leaves made him wonder if a creature was watching. Branches curled like crooked fingers, and the path ahead of him disappeared into shadows.
Sweat was already prickling down his back, making his shirt cling, and his neck felt sore and tight, as if it had already started to burn.
No Dudley. No Piers. No anyone.
For a moment Harry thought this must be one of Dudley’s new tricks – dump Harry somewhere awful and leave him there – but this was far worse than the time they’d locked him in the shed.
He didn’t have the faintest clue how to get back to Privet Drive.
And it couldn’t have been just a minute since the chase – back in Surrey the sky had been its usual cloudy grey, and here the air shimmered like it was cooking.
“Aunt Petunia’s going to kill me,” he muttered, looking down at himself. His knees and arms were streaked with blood and dirt, and his shirt was filthy.
That would mean no dinner, obviously, and probably being shoved into the cupboard before he “soiled her nice carpets.”
He wiped his nose on his arm and let out a long breath.
Best thing to do was have a look round. Maybe he’d find something to eat – before he had to start the long walk back to Number Four and all the shouting, locked doors, and empty plates waiting for him there.
***
The longer Harry walked, the more he was sure he’d really gone and messed things up this time.
Somehow.
It was dawning on him that he might not even be in Britain anymore.
The air didn’t smell like it – no petrol fumes, no damp brickwork. The light felt different too, brighter and heavier, as if it was pressing down on his head. And the trees… they were wrong. Huge leaves drooped overhead like umbrellas, and knotted roots broke up the ground under his feet.
It made him think of the stories Dudley used to blare out after coming back from Spain with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Dudley would go on about “palm trees” and “water so blue it looked fake,” rubbing it in well and good after Harry had had to grit his teeth through a whole week with Mrs. Figg and her cabbagey-smelling sitting room full of cats.
But this couldn’t be Spain. You had to get on a plane to go somewhere like that, and Harry didn’t even have enough money for a bus to the next town over.
He was chewing on a strange fruit he’d found – red, with tiny barbs and bumps all over the skin, while reaching this conclusion – forehead furrowed seriously.
He’d cracked it open because the colour caught his eye. Inside, the flesh was yellowish-orange, smelled fine, and tasted a bit like an apple, though not as sweet.
That was good enough for Harry. He wasn’t picky. If it didn’t make him sick, he’d eat it.
Even if it did… well, maybe he’d still eat it.
He kept walking, brushing flies from his face and stepping over patches of moss that squished under his trainers.
The place – this strange, tropical sort of place – was the prettiest spot he’d ever been in, not that that was saying much. Thick green leaves crowded the path, and here and there the sunlight broke through in blinding shards, lighting up the dust in the air like gold.
It had to be his freakishness that had landed him here. Anything strange or unnatural usually was, at least in Harry’s experience. That was just the way of things.
Maybe, he thought, if he wished hard enough, he’d end up back in Surrey.
The trouble was… he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. Not yet.
***
Harry spent his first night out of the cupboard under the stars and moon.
It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time – better than four walls and a musty blanket. But by the middle of the night, his teeth were chattering, his nose felt like ice, and the ground was so lumpy it poked through his ribs.
He curled up as tight as he could, trying to keep warm, eyes flicking to the shapes moving in the dark. Every rustle in the grass made his skin prickle.
Somewhere, something hooted.
Somewhere else, something splashed.
Harry didn’t sleep much – just a few snatches here and there between shivers.
By morning, he was starting to think his plan to put off finding a way back to his “loving family” might have been a bit stupid.
But then he found berries. Deep purple, tart and sweet all at once. He ate until his tummy sloshed, and his fingers turned dark with juice.
He tried rubbing them clean on his shirt but only succeeded in making a big stain.
The day only got better from there.
Harry decided he was an explorer. He scrambled up shrubs (and slid down again), stalked pretty birds (and got caught when they swooped right over his head), and chased beetles and butterflies until they zipped away out of reach.
He’d never had a day where no one told him to stop doing things.
By afternoon, he’d spotted a perfect hiding place: a hollow between two huge tree roots, just big enough for him to curl into. It even smelled a bit like the cupboard back at Number Four – only nicer, warmer, and without the polish or paint fumes.
Harry stuffed it with leaves and moss until it felt soft, then wriggled in for a test.
That night he slept properly, all snuggled into his little nest, the tree roots curved around him like the sides of a giant cradle.
The days after that went much the same. He woke when he liked, ate until his belly was round with fruit, and wandered wherever he pleased. No yelling. No cupboard. No chores. And best of all, no Dudley.
***
Harry prodded the tender little gap between his teeth with his tongue for what had to be the hundredth time, grinning down at the tiny milk tooth lying in his palm.
It had been wobbly ever since he’d taken that tumble running from Dudley, and after hours of wriggling and twisting, it had finally popped out.
He thought it would be brilliant to make a necklace out of it – like something a warrior might wear. A tooth trophy.
The trouble was, he hadn’t found anything that could work as string yet, and the tooth was so small it might be tricky to tie on even if he did.
He was so caught up in thinking about it that he didn’t realise he’d walked out of the thick, shady forest until his trainers crunched on something different – dry, sun-baked earth instead of leaf litter.
A sudden, high-pitched squeal made him jump. He looked up fast, heart thudding, and locked eyes with a girl about his age. Her hair was pulled into two short pigtails, and she wore a square-patterned summer dress.
Her mouth hung open. She looked scared.
That made Harry’s stomach twist a bit.
Before he could say anything, the girl stumbled backward, shouted something in a strange language, and bolted.
Harry stayed where he was, still clutching his tooth, mouth partway open, feeling very, very confused.
Then he saw the man.
He came running from farther off, from the edge of a field where rows of green things grew in crooked lines. His clothes were dusty and loose, and he had a big moustache and a face that looked carved from stone.
He shouted something, and the girl turned halfway, pointing straight at Harry.
Harry’s legs went wobbly. The man was coming fast now, yelling with a voice that made the birds scatter. His eyes were locked on Harry, and his eyebrows were scrunched down like he was furious.
Harry’s chest tightened.
He was going to get beaten. He just knew it.
He turned and tried to run, but his legs felt like jelly. He barely managed a few shaky steps before the air seemed to lurch around him.
Then that swooping, inside-out feeling came over him again, making his eyes sting and his head swim. He squeezed his eyes shut just before the world burst apart, yanking him with it – then spat him out somewhere entirely different.
***
Harry landed with a grunt, eyes still squeezed shut as he slid down something slick. The ground gave way under him, and he tumbled in a messy roll until he flopped to a stop on his stomach.
For a second, he just lay there, catching his breath. Then his eyes snapped open.
The tooth!
He sat up quickly, patting at the ground around him, scanning for the little white prize he’d been holding. But all he could see was green. Everywhere.
The trees shot up so high it made his neck hurt to look, their tops lost in a tangle of leaves that seemed to brush the sky. Big, flat leaves – some bigger than him – hung overhead, dripping water that splashed against his cheeks. Everything smelled… alive. Damp earth and wet wood.
In front of him, a huge river slid past, wide and brown and shining where the light caught it, moving slow but with a steady muscle underneath. He could barely see the sky for all the branches, but the air was hot and heavy, clinging to his skin like a raincoat on a hot summer day.
The tooth was nowhere in sight.
In a last desperate try, Harry scrambled closer to the water, peering along the muddy bank to see if it had somehow rolled all the way there –
– and then jerked back, heart thudding.
A face had looked back at him from the water’s surface. His face. Only it hardly looked like him at all.
His hair stuck out in sweaty clumps, streaked with mud, and his skin was so caked in dirt it looked like he’d been rolling in the garden for hours. His eyes were huge, staring, wild – his oversized clothes drooping off his thin frame like a second saggy skin.
No wonder the little girl had screamed. If he’d seen someone looking like that come lurching towards him, he’d probably have legged it too.
Pressing a hand to his chest, Harry breathed in and out until his pulse slowed a bit. The man from before was gone, the shouting gone too, and somehow he knew – without really knowing how – that he’d jumped to somewhere completely new again.
This place felt wilder than the last. Louder, too. Insects hummed, birds shrieked, and somewhere far off something let out a long, low cry.
This time, though, Harry felt better. He remembered how the last jump had knocked him out cold, leaving him woozy and weak for hours afterward – like the worst kind of motion sickness.
But now, his head was clear, his limbs steady. His body felt alert. His mind sharp.
He was ready.
…Ready for a bath, anyway.
Not really stopping to think about what he was doing, Harry tugged off his filthy rags and splashed straight into the river. The warm water wrapped around him like a hug, and a surprised laugh burst out of his chest.
This was brilliant – like his own private swimming pool.
He kept to the shallows – he couldn’t actually swim, and the water out in the middle looked like it was pushing hard against itself – but he made the most of it.
He dunked his head and scrubbed at his hair until mud came away in swirls, floated on his back for a few wobbly seconds, and waded after flashes of darting fish.
On the bank, jewel-bright frogs lazed on hot stones, and Harry couldn’t resist diving under to grab odd treasures from the riverbed – smooth pebbles, tangled weeds, a chunk of driftwood that looked like a bent wizard’s staff.
He was so caught up in his game that at first he barely noticed the shadow.
Long. Thick. Sliding through the water towards him with purpose.
Harry’s grin froze. His legs moved before his head caught up, splashing him frantically toward the shore. He had almost made it when the shadow broke the surface.
The snake was enormous – its scales a deep green mottled with black ovals, its body as thick as a fencepost and easily three times longer than Uncle Vernon was tall.
Harry stared, unable to help it. He’d never seen anything so strange and beautiful.
Then the beauty reared back, tongue flicking, and Harry’s awe turned cold in his stomach.
It was looking at him like he was lunch.
Harry froze, every muscle gone stiff. The snake’s head rose higher, eyes locked on him, and he could almost see the moment it tensed to strike.
“N-no! Stop! Stop!” he squeaked, his voice cracking. Surely he’d taste awful. Skin and bone. Not worth the trouble.
To his astonishment, the snake actually paused. It tilted its head, lifting higher still, studying him. Its small, dark eyes glittered.
“It speaks,” it hissed, sounding so surprised that Harry felt a ridiculous urge to laugh.
That was his line. It wasn’t every day you met a snake who spoke the Queen’s English after all.
“Er – hullo,” he blurted, because it seemed rude not to greet something that could eat you whole.
“Hello, little snakeling on legs. What are you doing here, splashing about in my waters and making so much noise in my territory?”
Harry’s chest gave a little jump of excitement.
He was talking to a snake.
A massive snake.
“I – um – I got a bit lost,” he admitted. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to barge into your home or anything. I’ll go if you want. Just… don’t eat me, Mister – or Miss – Snake.”
The triangular head tipped to the side, and the snake began to slide up the muddy bank. Each coil pressed deep tracks into the earth.
Harry adjusted his tense position, and grimaced as he felt wet mud squelch against his bum and cling to the back of his legs. So much for getting clean.
“I do not know these ‘Misters’ or ‘Misses’ you speak of,” it said. “But I am a snake, yes. And if you have lost your nest, I could keep you warm. I have borne young three times already, and kept them warm and safe inside me. I am a good Mother.”
Harry swallowed.
“Oh. Uh – that’s nice, I guess... I’m Harry.”
***
And so began Harry’s days of living like a snake.
***
His new nestmother – huge, gleaming, and somehow softer than she looked – was patient in a way no adult in his life had ever been.
She didn’t mind that he couldn’t swallow rabbits whole, or swim through the racing currents, or wind himself up the trunks of smooth-barked trees without getting stuck halfway.
Instead, she taught him how to move without making a sound, how to feel the faintest tremor in the earth through the soles of his feet, and how to trust his nose and skin as much as his eyes.
She even showed him how to climb and coil, though Harry’s version usually involved clinging like a limpet and laughing at himself.
He loved everything about her – the way she explained the forest as if it were a living thing with moods and secrets, the way she nudged him toward food and fussed when she learned he had to eat several times a day instead of once every other month like her. (Not that he could always stomach the still-twitching prey she proudly delivered.)
And at night, when she curled around him in a living blanket high among the branches, he felt safer than he ever had in his life. The height had terrified him at first, but now the canopy felt like home – green and warm and smelling of rain and leaves.
Over the next week, Harry stopped feeling like a lost boy in ragged clothes and began feeling like her hatchling, part of her world.
It was, perhaps, the best week of his short life so far.
Sometimes, drifting to sleep in the curve of her coils, he wondered if this was what it felt like – to be wanted.
To be loved.
But all good things, inevitably, come to an end.
And so, sooner than he would have liked, Harry’s time with his Mother ran out.
***
“Look! Isn’t it pretty?” Harry giggled, crouching low with his chin cupped in his palms, eyes fixed on a bright blue-and-black spotted frog sitting on the moss.
He dug his bare toes into the cool, damp earth and wiggled them, savouring the squish of it between them.
It was a good day – warm without being sticky, the air alive with hums and chirps – and Harry was proud of himself. He hadn’t made a single silly mistake all morning, spotting the hidden dangers in time, just like Mother had taught him.
“You can’t eat that one,” his nestmother chided gently, lifting her head to scent the air. Her tongue flicked once, twice – then lingered. She seemed distracted.
Harry sent her a cheeky grin. “I know, I know. I just like to look at it. Not everything’s about eating, you know.”
He sprang up and skipped to her side, rubbing his shoulder against her scales and patting the warm, smooth surface of her flank. She leaned over, tongue brushing against the shell of his ear in a cool, ticklish sweep that made him squirm and laugh.
“Says the hatchling who can’t go a single day without feeding,” she murmured, curling part of her body around him. “Now hush. I smell another hunter nearby. They may be hungry.”
Harry’s smile faltered. That… hadn’t happened before. Nobody ever trespassed here – everyone knew Mother was the biggest, meanest thing in this part of the forest.
Maybe it was another snake, Harry thought, one coming to say hello.
But as the moments stretched, the air seemed to press heavier against his skin.
Mother’s great body shifted, muscles rippling under her scales, her head turning slowly. Harry could feel her tense – not just in the way she moved, but in a strange prickling at the back of his neck.
He didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain that whatever was coming wasn’t a friend.
“Let’s get you back to the nest,” Mother hissed, her voice low, urgent. She gave Harry a firm nudge with her snout.
Harry didn’t argue. The uneasy knot in his stomach told him this wasn’t the time for questions.
He kept close to her side, glancing over his shoulder every few steps.
That’s when he noticed it – the silence. The forest had stopped singing. No bird chatter, no frog croaks, not even the buzz of insects. It made the hair on his arms stand up.
He sped up, leaping over thick roots and ducking beneath tangles of vines, his bare feet slapping against the damp earth. Mother’s pace quickened too, her coils sliding faster, her voice breaking into short, sharp hisses to hurry him along.
It wasn’t enough.
The sound was so soft Harry almost thought he imagined it – a faint thump on the branch above.
He froze. The air left his lungs in one hard whoosh.
Slowly, as if the very act might snap the world in two, he lifted his gaze.
A big cat was watching him.
Not the kind you kept in a house. This one was the colour of sunlight poured over shadows, sleek muscle wrapped in golden fur patterned with black rosettes. Its jaws hung slightly open, teeth huge and sharp-looking.
A deep, rolling growl rumbled out.
Harry’s eyes burned.
Before he could move Mother slid forward, her massive body curling protectively around him. Her head rose, fangs bared, and she let out a hiss that seemed to crackle through the air.
The cat hesitated. For a breath, Harry thought maybe it would leave. But then its muscles bunched, and it sprang.
“Run, hatchling!” Mother’s hiss sliced through the air.
Harry bolted, crashing through the undergrowth. His heart thudded so loud it drowned everything else out. Branches whipped his face; roots grabbed at his ankles. He stumbled, half-blind from tears, nose clogged, lungs burning.
Should he turn back?
He should.
He couldn’t just leave his Mother.
Abandon her.
But his legs wouldn’t stop, not even when the guilt sank claws into his chest. The ground blurred under his feet until –
Crack! His toes caught on something, sending him pitching forward. The memory of the last time he’d fallen during a chase flashed hot in his mind. He gritted his teeth, bracing –
The ground was gone.
When his foot came down again, it struck hard, unyielding brick. He slammed forward, barely getting his arms up in time, scraping them – the sting making him whimper.
The air was less humid – lighter – smelling of dust and spices instead of leaves. He pressed his forehead to the wall, gulping air, sweat dripping into his eyes.
His vision swam; his knees shook.
Then –
A sharp bark of words behind him.
Harry spun around, fists clenched, every muscle ready to fight.
***
How wonderful it would be, Harry thought, if everyone in the world turned into snakes.
At least then he might’ve understood what the croaky old woman was trying to say, as she waved her bony fingers at him.
All Harry could do was sniffle as he caught his breath and realized that, once again, he had arrived somewhere unfamiliar – and strange.
Slowly, the realization that he had lost his Mother – that she was still back there, maybe battling the great beast for his sake… maybe dying in the process – seemed to soak through Harry’s brain.
His tears wouldn’t stop. In fact, they began rolling faster down his cheeks as he came to terms with what had happened.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Harry managed between sobs, his voice breaking.
The grey-haired woman only became more animated, her hands flapping through the air like a startled bird, smiling wide enough to show the dark gaps where her teeth were missing.
Harry turned away from her and stumbled toward the opening of the alley he seemed to have transported himself into. “I have to get back,” he explained – maybe to no one but himself.
“I have to find my Mother.”
***
Perhaps if Harry had been in a better headspace, he might have found some wonder in the ancient-looking city he had stumbled into.
The streets twisted and turned like a maze, packed with people, bikes, and animals. The air smelled like burning sticks, sweet flowers, and fried snacks.
Somewhere nearby, bells were ringing, and voices echoed off the walls – some singing, some shouting, all blending into a kind of soul-stirring music.
A big brown cow stood calmly in the middle of the road, ignoring the honking cars and scooters. A man wearing orange cloth sat cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed, humming softly.
The walls were covered in faded paintings of people with many arms and bright colours, and signs written in curly letters Harry couldn’t read.
He passed a man selling something from a cart, the smell making his stomach growl. Children dashed past him laughing, and a kite dipped and danced above the rooftops.
Then the alley opened up, and Harry saw the river. It was wide and slow, glowing in the sunlight. People were stepping into the water, splashing it on their heads, and some were lighting tiny candles on leaves and letting them float away.
It looked like the river was carrying little stars.
At one end, smoke drifted from a pile of wood, and people stood watching in solemn silence.
A man in a small wooden boat waved at him, smiling.
Harry just stood there, watching everything.
Then he turned and kept walking, aimless, wiping his eyes and nose on the frayed hem of his t-shirt.
No matter how hard Harry wished for it, he seemed incapable of going back.
He was stranded. All alone, lost in a crowd of people.
It felt like his heart was breaking into tiny pieces.
He felt suffocated by the sheer amount of life and activity bustling around him.
After all, Harry had gotten used to solitude by now – of being in the company of simple but easy-to-understand animals.
This was too much.
He couldn’t seem to draw in a full breath. His steps slowed as he gasped, small whimpering sounds escaping, the words “I’m sorry, Mother” tumbling from his lips repeatedly.
What he didn’t notice was how people made way for him as he walked, head hanging, through the streets. How children stared curiously, and how some adults bowed or muttered blessings and prayers.
(Turned out it was pretty difficult to switch languages when you didn’t even realise you were speaking something other than English.)
For hours he wandered like that, through gold-lit streets and into the deepening blue of dusk, until the heat bled away and the night air nipped at his skin. At last, he chose a broad stone staircase and climbed onto it, curling himself up and hugging his knees for warmth.
He was almost asleep when a figure approached – draped in orange, with a long, wispy white beard and a tall funny-looking headpiece.
He held out a small cloth bundle.
Harry hesitated, but the warm, mouth-watering smell drifting from it was too much to ignore. He took it, muttering a quiet, “Thank you,” because manners never hurt nobody.
The man stepped back, made a series of slow hand gestures, spoke a few strange words, and left.
Harry unwrapped the bundle to find a handful of nuts and a round, golden pastry. He bit into it – and it cracked under his teeth, releasing a warmth and spice so bright and comforting it felt like eating a mouthful of sunshine.
***
Harry woke in the middle of the night with the strange, prickling certainty that someone was watching him.
Maybe it was because he was still wound tight from everything that had happened earlier, but his eyes blinked open before his mind was even fully awake. Cold shivers trickled down his spine.
He had never feared the dark when he was with his nestmother – how could he, when she was always wrapped around him, keeping him safe?
Even just after he had stumbled away from Britain into the wild unknown, he hadn’t minded it too much – sleeping outside that was. Back then, it had all felt like an adventure.
Compared to Dudley’s fists, Uncle Vernon’s rage, and Aunt Petunia’s sharp, poisonous words, the moonlit night seemed harmless.
He had never feared his cupboard either. If anything, it was sometimes preferable to being out in the open at Number Four – it was his own little hideaway, a space meant only for Harry (and the spiders, who were always welcome).
But now, Harry felt afraid. Exposed. Vulnerable.
His eyes couldn’t stop scanning the deep shadows of the alleyways – anything could be lurking beyond them.
Then came the sound – measured footsteps, the soles striking stone in crisp, steady beats.
Harry’s head turned sharply.
A figure was approaching, cloaked in a long, dark robe, moving straight toward him.
Goosebumps erupted across his skin as he stared.
Surely, they would just pass.
Yet a small voice inside Harry urged vigilance – something felt wrong. It was in the air, curling around the figure, setting off alarm bells in his mind. The closer they came, the more rigid Harry became.
And then, just as they were about to pass his small figure hunched in the corner of the staircase – they stopped.
Harry didn’t dare breathe as the cloaked figure turned toward him.
Under the hood, long, black hair hung limp against a face so pale it seemed almost translucent. Then he saw the eyes – unnatural and inhuman in colour, burning with a focus so intense it made his stomach flip.
The stranger was tall enough to blot out the rest of the world, their cloak falling like a curtain that shut Harry in. Slowly, they leaned closer, and a blue-veined, long-nailed hand slid from the folds of fabric, reaching for him.
The world surged back into motion, and Harry sprang to his feet, vaulting over the staircase and tearing down the street.
Behind him came a frustrated yell from the stranger, who had seemed like something out of a nightmare – a boogeyman come to drag him away.
Harry was wide awake now, heart hammering in his ears, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The street ahead wavered in his vision.
He couldn’t hear anyone chasing him, but he knew he wasn’t safe.
It reminded him too much of being stalked by the jungle cat – only this time, there was no Mother to coil protectively between him and danger.
Harry darted toward a narrow alley – only for a hand to clamp hard around his arm.
The grip caused something primal inside him to unfurl.
Sparks flared in his chest, snapping and crackling, building into a wild swirl of heat and pressure.
With a cut-off yell, he let the power surge, and the world ripped away.
Harry landed in another pitch-dark place, already mid-run, shaking and wheezing from exhaustion. But after a few steps, he skidded to a halt – then screamed.
A skull grinned at him from the black, empty-eyed and hollow-cheeked.
Harry’s gaze roamed the space, his throat tightening.
The walls were stacked high with human remains – skulls upon skulls, bones tangled together in a grim lattice.
His adventure had never felt so terrifying.
This was no longer fun, Harry thought.
And just when he believed things couldn’t get worse, he turned – and was met once again by the cloaked figure.
Red, red eyes stared down at Harry, and he felt his throat tighten in fear.
The monster had followed him.