Understanding

Understanding

Harry never understood why he was the way he was. Questions filled the thoughts of a fifteen-year-old Hogwarts student who happened to be the savior of the magical world.

It was the first of September. People filled the train station at King's Cross as they had every year before. Parents waved good-bye as their children headed off to Platforms 9 and 10. Where, once there, they would run into a wall...and disappear.

It's funny how normal folks never seemed to catch on, that children were disappearing right before their eyes, into an iron wall. If they had actually seen this occurrence, they would at first be suspicious and wonder, but then they'd simply blame it on their eyes. No one can walk through walls, after all, can they? They honestly didn't believe in that sort of thing.

But the children and parents at the station on that particular day were not normal people. They were people that the Muggles wouldn't believe in: witches and wizards, magical beings with powers hidden beneath their very skin. And these children weren't just leaving home, they were going to school, more specifically, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

One of those children was fifteen-year-old Harry, a young boy with spectacles, unruly hair, and an unusual scar; a scar which was placed on his forehead many years ago. It was a scar in the shape of a lightening bolt. The scar was not what made this boy special; however, it was just a reminder of what was important.

Harry didn't have any parents to kiss him good-bye when he left for school. No hugs, no pats on the back, he was seen off by just a cruel uncle who was glad to get rid of him for nine months out of the year.

But he was no ordinary orphan.

Harry Potter was no ordinary boy.

Harry Potter, orphan, fifth year wizard at Hogwarts, best friend to Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, was also The-Boy-Who-Lived.

Every wizarding family knew who the Potters were. The Potters, a wizarding family themselves, consisted of James Potter, (the dashing former Head Boy of Hogwarts and Quidditch player extraordinaire), Lily Evans Potter, (the beautiful former Head Girl of Hogwarts and Charms expert), and their infant son, Harry.

Besides the fact that they were powerful, something else made them famous. Their deaths, or rather, James and Lily's deaths. One Halloween night, the evil wizard, Voldemort, invaded their house, killing both husband and wife. The Dark Lord then turned his wand toward their young son and initiated his own downfall.

Harry Potter survived a curse that no one had ever survived before. That is what made Harry famous. That is what made people stop and stare at him, and that is what kept the young Potter up at night.

From the day he turned eleven and found out that he was a wizard, Harry had always wondered what made him special. He tried to tell people that he was just a normal boy, a normal wizard. That he wasn't special enough to cause any sort of commotion. They never listened, and Harry stopped trying. He learned to ignore the stares, the whispers, and the screams of delight, or fright. He learned to keep his mind on more important things, such as his studies and Quidditch. That was another thing that made him special. Harry was great on a broom; he was even better at Quidditch. Harry Potter was also the youngest Seeker in a century.

Harry knew if his parents had not died, he would not be in this mess. He would have been able to live like a normal wizarding child, in a loving family and away from the zoo exhibit life. That's how Harry felt, like he was in a zoo, with people pressing their faces against a glass to stare at the boy wonder. It wasn't a life Harry wanted to live.

It was difficult growing up not understanding what made him him. It was hard growing up not knowing if the person he was today would be the same if his past were different.

He never understood why people treated him the way they did. He never understood why, of all the kids in the world, magical or not, that evil had chosen his doorstep to light upon and his family to destroy. And he never understood why he was sent to a family of Muggles who never loved him, especially if he was in so much danger.

Last year, Dumbledore had told him and Sirius, his godfather, that the only way for him to heal was with acceptance, and with acceptance, he would become understanding.

Harry was sure it would be a long time before he healed.

When Harry boarded the Hogwarts Express, the steam train that transported the wizarding students to their school, he went directly towards the back to where he knew his friends Ron and Hermione were seated. Harry felt with all of his heart that no one would ever truly understand him, but he was certain that his best friends were the only ones that could even come close.

Ron Weasley, the tall, red-haired comedian, would crack a joke or insult their enemies, Draco Malfoy and his goons, or their Potions Professor, Severus Snape. Hermione Granger, smart and pretty, would comfort him with her knowledge and wit. Harry would be able to ignore the emptiness inside of him for a while when he was with them. Unfortunately, the night would always bring the void back, sometimes in full. And sometimes the only way to fill that void was with tears.

Harry didn't understand why he cried so much at night.

Harry knew days would pass, so would the months and years. He knew, but he didn't understand. He didn't understand why people had to grow old, only to die. He didn't understand why people could leave and then come back as if nothing had changed. He didn't understand why people could learn to hate others.

Harry found he didn't understand a lot.

The days did pass, as did the months. Finally, Harry found himself at the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts, still not quite understanding. O.W.L.S. were over, and people were packing. The Quidditch Cup was awarded to Harry's house, and the Gryffindors celebrated, but even that had its down side. Harry was leaving his home once again to return to the small group of people who hated him. The void that had only come at nighttime would return in full force, haunting him all day long throughout his summer break. He didn't understand why it had to be that way.

The night before the magical children were scheduled to leave their safe haven, Harry had a dream.

He dreamed of blood and swords, wands and spells, dirt and mud. A deafening hum had filled the sky. He dreamed he was face to face with Voldemort, the killer of his parents and the one who cursed him. Hexes were being thrown, so were words. A storm started to form, circling the two wizards, hiding them from view with rain and earth. Finally, the humming stopped and the dust began to settle. In the shadows of the storm, one lone wizard stood, sword in hand. No smile did he wear, for even if his enemy was destroyed, the memories of the terror still lived on.

Harry watched himself leave the remnants of the Dark Lord's body and walk off into the distant. Only then did he wake up.

It had hit him suddenly, the meaning, the awareness, the answers. Life had to go on, as it always had. Good would always triumph in the end, no matter what was in the past; it was the future that mattered. It didn't matter who one was or why they were as they were, because it only mattered in the end. That's just how life went.

Harry understood.

The End.