Muggle World

2: The Boy Who Lived

And that was it: Harry finally flew. Flew out of his seat toward the long, sharp bread knife resting on the counter – flew into a blind rage.

Petunia and Vernon Dursley (Dudley was upstairs) had let out two very large, very melodramatic gasps. They had been expecting this since they had found their nephew on the doorstep years ago. But Aunt Marge just snickered drunkenly, dizzily pouring herself another glass of brandy:

“What are you going to do now, you runt-” she slurred, swaying a little in her seat “– are ya’ going to come after me? See here! You’re a RUNT! You don’t possess the GUTS ta’--”

Harry rocketed forward, waving the silvery wedge in her horrified, ruby red face. The bread knife reflected in her widening eyes, her jowls quivering. Her mouth had become similar to that of a great bass trying to gasp for air. Harry slowly moved the knife back and forth a second time – right in front of Marge’s eyes, right within the space between their faces – and then moved the knife back and forth again. And again. And again-- Seriously, Harry hadn’t really thought this far ahead, and was at a loss of what to do, next.

The moment lessened. Then all hell broke loose.

The brandy bottle crashed to the floor--Uncle Vernon shoved himself and his equally portly sister off their chairs--Ripper let out a yowl--Aunt Petunia jumped up, and ran to the phone--Aunt Marge was now screaming bloody murder as she scooped up Ripper--and faster then Harry James Potter could even know what he was doing, he had sprinted clear out of the dining room, down the hall, and to his cupboard under the stairs.

Harry had felt as if demons were nipping at his heels. He pried open his cupboard door, and, pulling out a dark, navy blue duffle bag, smashed as many thrown-about clothes into it as he could. The bag was half-empty and not quite zipped up all the way as Harry burst out of the front door.

Soaring down Privet Drive, the empty duffle bag repeatedly bumped-up against his right side, and with the most curious sensation, he realized the knife was still in his left hand – blade sticking straight up into the brisk, black, summer air. The bread knife clattered to the pavement, though, as Harry maneuvered quickly – but clumsily – around a bewildered Arabella Figg. She, herself, was coming home with an evening’s worth of cat-food shopping.

Harry’s heart gave a painful jolt as he hastened his flight down the street.

‘Magnolia...Magnolia Drive... Got to get to Magnolia... Magnolia...Magnolia... Got to get--’ ...The mantra kept him going; the fear kept his blood pumping... ‘Magnolia... Magnolia...bus stop...Magnolia...BUS!!!’

It was a forbidden miracle far too sweet to greet. Harry saw it – the Knightly-Hound Commuting Bus-Service. It was the cheapest express-line in Little Winging, and it was pulling-up--pulling-up--there--right in front of Harry.

As soon as the off-purple, one-layer bus rolled to a stop, Harry clattered on, forcing through the partly open doors. The driver blinked at him curiously.

Standing in the front of the vehicle, Harry started to catch his breath, the bright white lights of the bus’s interior stinging his eyes. It then dawned on him that he needed bus fare.

That was when the second miracle of the night happened; while rooting desperately through his jean pocket for money, Harry discovered a 20-pound note and some-such change, worth a bus ride and a week’s worth of fast-food meals to sustain him. The money, of course, had not been Harry’s, being that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia both sneezed at the idea of giving their nephew spending money. It was most likely from the fact that the pants he had on were week-old hand-me-downs from Dudley.

Sliding the coins into the slot next to the bus driver, Harry made his way dazedly to the back. He sat down, suddenly becoming acutely aware of how hard his heart was pumping and the fact that he had just run away.

***

‘Running-away…’ Harry came back to himself. Back to Hogwarts and the dreadful waiting room.

A plump, little woman passed by, wearing a floral-print muumuu and a sunhat with netting hanging over the edge. She rifled through the file cabinet in the corner, pulled out a manila folder, and waltzed out of the room.

‘…Then why did it feel so right while I did it?’ Harry pondered carefully. His jaded persona had already melted away. ‘Why did I feel amazing – just, like, wow – when I ran away? It was the Dursleys, and they were bad...but, but...’

***

…Yes, yes! Harry had been overcome with a feeling of wonderful excitement. Going to diners and restaurants... Renting rooms in hotels and motels... Earning his own money... Backpacking... Hitchhiking... Camping under the stars... Living a boy’s dream... Being free – away from his aunt, uncle, and cousin...

As his mind made plans for a Dursley-free future, adrenaline pumped freely through his veins. And then, just like that, his entire stunt came crashing down.

Sirens.

Harry turned to look out the window in back of him. His eyes widened, his mouth hanging open as he saw the whirling red lights tailing the bus in the darkness. An image of the Dursleys – all standing together, angrily, in a sort of twisted family portrait pose – filled his vision.

‘No...I don’t want to go back...’

Harry dashed to the front, duffle bag in tow, his face pallid. The energy lost in his “jaunt” to the bus stop was made anew. The hairy bus driver, apparently, had just noticed that the sirens blaring about were closely following his bus. Harry practically yelled – okay, not ‘practically,’ he reflected, more like ‘actually did’ – into the driver’s ear.

“DON’T STOP THE BUS!!”

“Wha--wha--WHAT?!” The bus driver’s face jerked toward Harry, his eyes wide in surprise behind bug-eyed, prescription spectacles.

“ JUST--JUST...DON’T PULL OVER, OKAY??”

Judging by his forehead, the driver had started to sweat buckets, fearfully turning to look ahead. Other passengers were starting to stare. “Yeh have a gun, have yeh, kid...?” The driver mumbled under his breath in a shaky calm, his hands clenching the wheel.

“GUN...!” Harry shouted in surprise. The corner of his eye caught more passengers gawking at him. The rest were looking out at the six or more police cars that were riding along side the bus. Strangely, the driver seemed less interested in the cars, and now, more interested in Harry.

Harry lowered his voice, trying to calm himself. “...I’m not going to threaten you-- I don’t have a gun – I never even touched one in my entire life, but I---I-- they’re after me! My aunt--she called--when I was getting out of the house--I had to get out-- You have to believe me-- I had to get out--They were all--all of them--they were all so unfair...!”

“ --Look here,” The bus driver’s voice wasn’t shaky any more – it was serious and...sad. “I know that somethin’s a might wrong with yeh life, bu’ I can’t be the one fixin’ it. It’s wrong – horrible – if yeh got yourself in a mess and didin’ des’rve it...”

Harry’s heart throbbed. The bus was slowing...slowing... His driver was delivering him from the freedom he never knew he had wanted so much.

Knuckles white from holding onto the bus seat so hard, Harry felt his mouth begin to move.

“...Please...” Harry pleaded. His face was ashen, now, and his emerald eyes were moist and red.

The driver returned his fixated gaze, mouth drawn up tight as he reached to open the bus doors. Harry felt the bus stop beneath his sneakers. He saw how the driver’s beetle black eyes were getting watery, too.

With a long squeak, the bus doors were pulled open.

“Excuse us… We got an urgent call from down at the precinct about a domestic disturbance, and– oh! Geezus-- PERKINS! Oy!”

“Problem?”

“Not in the least. Take a look--”

“...Matches description perfectly--”

“...Except for the ‘blood-shot eyes,’ yeah-- Come with us quietly, now...”

Harry felt blank and empty when the two officers grabbed either of his arms. They pulled him out in front of one of the seven – no, nine? – police cars parked outside the bus. As he was being handcuffed – both wrists and ankles – Harry turned his head slightly to see the passengers pressing their noses against the windows. He became faintly aware of one officer, the one not throwing irons on him, reading him his rights.

In short, it had taken two and quarter hours for the entire thing to be written off as a warning, despite the ranting of Aunt Petunia, who continued on about her “felonious nephew”. Harry was detached and quiet the entire time he sat in the police station, duffle bag in his lap. A puce-colored Uncle Vernon pulled him by his left ear to the car, and Harry spent the next three days in his cupboard.

Secure and alone within the tiny space for the next 36 hours (2,160 minutes; 129,600 seconds), Harry’s ears found the wails of a traumatized Aunt Petunia (had the phone piece victimized her with a bread knife, too, he wondered?) and the meager mutterings of “them runts are brandishing knives these days” from a thoroughly befuddled Aunt Marge. Uncle Vernon stomped around a bit more, and seemed to be preoccupied with phone books and telephone calls – foreshadowing to Hogwarts, yet – and Ripper now sported a cone around his neck and a cast along the leg Aunt Marge had landed on. Dudley was thoroughly unaffected by his cousin’s “trip into madness”, and had spent his time waving leftover birthday cake in front of the square golden grill on the cupboard door – until, that is, Harry spat into one of the pieces.

***

...Voila. Not three days later, Harry was here – Hogwarts Institution for Juvenile Delinquents. Yeah. Positively super. Couldn’t ask for a happier ending.

Harry heard footsteps behind the lime green door. It swung open.

“...And I’m sure you’ll find the psychiatric programs here most efficient for young Mr. Potter, Dursley.” The soft smiling voice, indeed, belonged to what...appeared ...to be the headmaster. He was tall, thin, and very old; half-moon glasses were balanced on his long, crooked nose. The blue jeans he wore had rips in the knees, and his pure white, elderly hair was as long as the white heard (braided at the end with a silver loop) that fell to his belt.

‘No wonder Uncle Vernon blew a gasket earlier… Who’s this guy, a hippie?’

“Right...right... Psychiatric programs, mental health – very important...” Uncle Vernon rushed through the words hastily. “NOW, Dumbledore, Petunia and I have been wondering about the DISCIPLINE program your fine school offers...” Harry didn’t miss how Uncle Vernon grinned. “What was it that teacher said over the phone...?”

Professor Dumbledore smiled jovially, blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses, which, Harry suddenly noticed, were tinted orange. “Oh, yes – Mr. Argus Filch doesn’t lie. Hogwarts is the most austere disciplinary establishment for miles.”

“Excellent!” Glancing at Harry from the corner of his right eye, Uncle Vernon curled his mustache into a sneer. Staring at his uncle, it occurred to Harry that they had walked through the green door at the end of their conversation for a reason. “THANK YOU, Professor Dumbledore, for your time,” Vernon Dursley announced grandly. “It was wonderful to have a chance to talk to you... Have a DELIGHTFUL remainder of the holiday.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore beamed, closing the lime green door swiftly behind him.

Grinning poisonously at his nephew, Uncle Vernon jerked his fat thumb toward the office door. “Hear what he said, eh?”

Harry looked up at him, not even wincing.

Vernon’s grin faded. “Aw, get up! Slouching all the while he was here… Up, up! Get to the car!” Harry slovenly pulled himself out of his chair as Vernon drawled on, as if proudly talking about one of his business deals at Grunnings. “You’re marked, boy – bet you that you won’t come out of this school alive. I told him everything I could think of – right from diapers to Stonewall and back again, I even talked ab--”

The boy had already tuned his uncle out.

Marked? Alive? Harry fell oddly pensive again, idly wondering if he was going a bit nutty with all his memory rehashing...

***

In the three days he had been kept in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry had pondered a lot of things – among the most prevalent, when Aunt Petunia would let him out for a bathroom break. Amongst a gray cloud of thought, it had occurred to him – rather optimistically – that he might not have been the total failure that the Dursleys said he was.

He hadn’t fallen apart at the seams when the only adult (and motorcyclist) he had ever trusted left without a trace, nor when he was face to face with an obese aunt who gave him biscuits as a birthday present. Harry had emerged victorious against two weeks of pneumonia, only to be thrown into a shark tank where almost all the fish wore pink hair bobbles and mugged helpless toads. When Aunt Petunia had told him that his parents had died in a drunk-driving accident – and, most uncaringly, almost taken him with them – the most emotionally scared thought in Harry’s head had been to fly. More to the point, Harry had grown-up in a house that offered total disregard for him, yet possessed just enough sense to run away, and had just dodged prison for threatening his aunt.

And, secretly yet foremost, when his good-for-nothing parents had gotten into a car crash when he was baby, Harry had lived – practically unscathed, except for the jagged scar on his forehead that he supposed didn’t really look much like anything at all.

Harry Potter was the boy who lived – lived and survived, that is. If that wasn’t something worth being a little proud of, he wasn’t sure what was.

***

“BOY!” Uncle Vernon growled. Harry looked up, not having realized they were outside, in the parking lot. “...Walking right past it...intolerable space cadet... THE CAR’S OVER HERE!”

Slowly, Harry followed his uncle into the car. The engine gave a start as it was brought to life. As Uncle Vernon sternly rounded the blacktop, Harry looked up to see, for the first time since his arrival, the looming presence that was the fortress of his new school. A slow, inky dread filled Harry’s stomach, and his eyes stayed fixed on Hogwarts as Uncle Vernon pulled out of the front gate.