Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe belongs to JK Rowling, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros and some other high falutin’ companies.
Me, I’m just a PR professional.
I don’t profess to own — and would never dream of making any money off — JKR’s wonderful world.
However, it’s her sandbox and she’s left the gate unlatched so we can go in and play a bit.
Which, I’ve done.
A wave of barely contained fury rolled off the young raven-haired boy with brilliant green eyes as he walked at the very back of the line.
There he is, he thought, the words burning like acid in his mind.
That’s the arsewipe who dumped me on the Dursleys.
Forty children, all roughly his age, moved slowly between two long house tables.
To his left sat students in robes trimmed with yellow and black; to his right, those with blue and bronze.
Golden plates and cutlery gleamed under the soft, floating glow of hundreds of candles that drifted lazily near the enchanted ceiling.
The other first-years whispered in awe, their heads tilting upward.
A bushy-haired girl just ahead was excitedly explaining to a blonde classmate how the ceiling was charmed to mirror the night sky.
Harry barely registered any of it.
His attention was locked on the man seated upon a grand golden throne at the head table — Albus Dumbledore, with his garish robes and flowing white beard.
The wizard who had condemned him to nearly a decade of hell.
Professor McGonagall, tall and stern beneath her tall witch’s hat, directed the new students to form a line before the small stage.
Harry recognized her too, and the enormous man who had escorted them from the station.
He paid them little attention.
A familiar pressure was building behind his eyes — the constant headache that had plagued him since he was seven, always flaring when his rage stirred.
As always, he crushed it down with iron discipline, a coping mechanism forged through years of abuse.
The Dursleys had never allowed him pain relief, so he had learned to strangle the anger deep inside himself.
It left him feeling suffocated, as though something invisible were squeezing his very soul.
The Sorting Hat burst into song, its voice carrying across the Great Hall.
It boasted of its uniqueness before explaining the four houses and urging the students to place it upon their heads.
Polite applause followed.
Harry clenched his jaw; each clap sent fresh spikes of pain through his skull.
He kept his eyes closed, breathing slowly, forcing the rage back into its cage.
McGonagall unrolled a long scroll and began calling names.
Harry only half-listened, retreating deeper into his mind.
He knew he could subdue the storm if given time.
The less he had to look at Dumbledore, McGonagall, or that oaf Hagrid, the better.
But then his name echoed through the hall.
“Harry Potter!”
The call came again, sharper this time.
Whispers erupted around him like crackling flames.
The Harry Potter?
The Boy-Who-Lived?
A light nudge at his shoulder pushed him forward.
He opened his eyes to see McGonagall staring at him sternly, while several teachers — including Dumbledore — leaned forward with clear anticipation.
Harry walked to the stool with measured steps, every muscle coiled tight.
As he reached it and began to turn, a familiar scent struck him — the same perfume McGonagall had worn that night.
The night they had left him on the Dursleys’ doorstep.
The memory slammed into him with brutal clarity.
“Dumbledore, you can’t,” McGonagall’s voice from the past rang in his ears.
“I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son — I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!”
“It’s the best place for him,” Dumbledore had replied firmly.
“His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”
“A letter?” McGonagall had repeated, faint with disbelief.
“Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous — a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future. There will be books written about Harry — every child in our world will know his name!”
Harry’s hands clenched into fists.
Rage surged through him like wildfire.
He spun toward the old witch, green eyes blazing with ten years of pent-up hatred.
“No!”