He was an idea, one that shifted from person to person like a chameleon.  Later in third year, he’d amend that to being like a boggart, but right now, pre-Hogwarts, a chameleon was what made the most sense.  

Petunia thought him a dullard, so that was what he was.  Every day, she had to tell him how to do things--the same things as the day before, and every day he purposefully left out at least two steps.

At school, his teacher assumed he was as stupid as the rumours suggested.  She asked him no questions, and he gave her no answers--unless staring blankly at her and then at the window was an answer.  It totally was an answer, but he didn’t bother sharing that titbit with her.  

He was an idea.  Harry Potter was a persona that he slipped on to deal with various situations, but the real him, the real Harry was nothing like anyone that he knew. 

His theory became even more pronounced after he found out he was a wizard.  The name, “Harry Potter,” was still just an idea within the wizarding world.  It might be more positive an idea than what he’d found in the muggle world, but it was still an idea that had little bearing on the actual truth.

. . .

Hagrid assumed the best of him based on his parentage, so he let him.  He nodded at the right spots and urged the large man to tell him of his mother and father, all the while letting the words slide past his ears with all the consistency of warm butter.  

What did he care of parents who never knew him?  What did he care of hearing about someone else’s ideas of how he should be based on what he’s never seen?  

The child of James and Lily Potter must be good, because they were.  It was upon that theory that he convinced Hagrid to let him leave on his own from Diagon Alley.  He did not need guidance, because as the child of James and Lily Potter, he was more than capable of navigating his way back to his vaunted home.  

The fact that he did not return to them was entirely inconsequential.  

Real Harry had no interest in returning to his existence as a dullard or a punching bag.   Real Harry saw the opportunity of staying in Diagon Alley as nothing more than an escape , and an opportunity in better understanding the wizarding world’s idea of Harry Potter.  

He had already decided that whatever the idea was, it was wrong, and he would do his best to be the opposite of it.

. . .

By the time he found his way onto platform 9 and ¾, he knew what he was not and what he would not be.  

According to the denizens of Diagon Alley--whom he very carefully polled--Harry Potter was a hero.  He would be in Gryffindor, which was where his parents were sorted, and which was where the Potters have historically always been.  

The Potters were very rich, and Harry Potter would flaunt those riches.  

James Potter was mouthy to the point of ugliness.  He had no interest in kowtowing to authority.  He made a joke out of everything, with the exception of his sacrifice to protecting Harry.  

Lily was blindingly intelligent.  Popular and friends with the right sorts, she was the kind of girl that most everyone liked.  Her teachers recalled nothing but the best from her, and no one was willing to tell him to his face that she was anything other than perfect.

The real Harry took all of this in with carefully disguised contempt.  His memories of the popular children in school were of vapid, uninteresting fools.  Children who had a backbone as long as there was a spotlight for them to bask in, but no real interest in doing what was right if there was no one around to see it.  

Harry decided that he would not be popular.  He didn’t think he could live with himself if he were.

He discovered that the Potters--that he--were very rich.  That didn’t mean that he planned on flaunting it.  He took the time to get the necessities, as well as updating his own image from that of destitute hoodlum to plain, regular student attire.  He bought trousers and dress shirts, but he also invested in a new pair of trainers (slightly bigger than he currently wore), because it was sensible and because he doesn’t plan on wearing his good shoes to slog through the mud or explore to in.  

Blending in was an important facet in not sticking out.  He remembered far too well the sea of nameless faces that regularly witnessed his suffering at the hands of Dudley and friends.  

He didn’t think he would be able to keep quiet should someone need help, but he also doesn’t think he would make a big deal of it, if at all possible.  

Flashy heroism was seemingly how his parents lost their lives to begin with.  He didn’t entirely understand how they could choose to let someone kill them instead of just handing him over, but he also acknowledged that humans were often capable of things that were unexpected.  

There had a been a teacher the year before that had seen through his lies of indifference and stupidity.  She had asked him questions that no one had ever voiced, and in turn, he had shared a little of real Harry with her.  With her, it was acceptable to be intelligent.  With her, it was acceptable not to agree with the crowd, and to want something different than the status quo.  

She had surprised him, and not in a bad way.  She was a teacher, and therefore should have been automatically in the crowd of people that he didn’t pay attention to, but yet she wasn’t anything like the rest of them.  

Ms. Engelbrecht had befuddled him, and she still did.

He didn’t mind being befuddled; it was just something that allowed him to see the world in shades of colours aside from black and white.

. . .

Ron Weasley was looking for a hero.  It was all too clear by the other boy’s goggling and impolite demand to sit with him and see if he had the scar.  He could hear the italics in the boy’s tone, and decided instantly that he had no interest in such worship.  

Fame was fickle.  He’d rather someone like him for himself, rather than the idea of Harry Potter.  

“Are you interested in the idea of Harry Potter or the person himself?”  He found himself asking.

“Huh?”  

“Harry Potter is a hero, yes?”

“Of course!”  Was Ron’s indignant reply.

“And if I told you that the real Harry Potter had no heroic tendencies?  That at the sight of trouble, he chose to walk the other way?”  Harry’s green eyes were calculating.

“The real Harry would never back down from the fight!”  Was Ron’s steadfast answer.

“I see,” Harry answered with a frown.  “Then, I suppose I have no idea who you are looking for.”

“But you’re Harry, aren’t you?”  Ron’s voice was bordering on shrill.

“Yes, I am a Harry, but I am not your Harry Potter.  I suggest you leave my compartment.”  

“But there’s nowhere else to sit!” More indignant spluttering.

Harry patted him lightly on the shoulder.  

“No fear, my dear sir.  Perhaps you will find your real Potter out there?”  He said, shooing him quietly out the door.  

Ron left and Harry slumped against the seat for a moment before straightening back up.

He had a feeling that James Potter had been a sloucher, and he had no interest in following in those footsteps, thank you very much.  

His next visitor was a girl who spoke much too fast and demanded to know his name without any real interest other than spouting out the books that he was supposedly mentioned in.  He cut her off with a slight smile.  

“Ah, but those books refer to the Harry Potter.  I’m not him.”

“But you said your name was Harry Potter,” She answered in an accusatory tone.

“It’s a rather common name,” He hedged.  “There’s probably three or four of us on here.  I wish you good luck on your search though?”  And he closed the door.  

Not more than half an hour had passed before his compartment was entered again without so much as a knock.  

“Are you him?”  The small blond boy demanded, two much larger boys standing in the corridor behind him.  

“Him?  Yes, I am a him,” Harry confirmed without so much as a grin.  

The boy rolled his eyes, and pushed on ahead.  

“Harry Potter.  The train is saying he’s around here somewhere.  He should be a first year.  Are you him?”  

He was mildly surprised by the wizarding world’s bluntness.  

“My name is Harry,” He answered instead.

“Yes, but are you him? ”  The other boy gritted out.  

“Him?”

“Potter .”  

“Why?  Do you want to be friends with him?”  

“I don’t want to be friends with him.  He’s going to want to be friends with me,”  The boy answered in as pompous a voice as Harry’s heard since moving permanently into the wizarding world.

It’s rather off putting, if Harry was honest with himself.  And the real Harry usually was.  

“I rather doubt that,” Harry answered, standing up and looking the boy straight in the eye.  “You see, I’m Harry Potter, and I don’t see any reason why I’d want to be your friend.  For one thing, your manners are atrocious.  You are supposed to knock.  That’s a rule both in the wizarding world and the reg--muggle.”

He knew.  He had looked it up.  

“For another, you don’t demand people to be friends with you.  You are supposed to ask.  Or at least have something in common before making such assumptions.  That’s the other issue I have with you.  You’re making assumptions based on too little information.  Try researching this Harry Potter thing some more, and then talk to me again.”  He said in a very calm voice.  

He patted the boy on the shoulder and then pushed him back out into the corridor with the other two boys.

As he did, he wondered whether those boys had been asked about whether they were his friends, or if the boy had just bullied them into it.  

He supposed he’d have to ask.  Especially if everyone else just assumed the answer.  

He didn’t much care for assumptions, himself.