“U-Uncle Vernon?” Harry asked, voice thin, and squinting his eyes to have a clear look, desperately wishing he was mistaken, “Aunt Marge?”

No. Though Harry admitted that his eyesight wasn’t perfect, Uncle Vernon was impossible to miss from any distance with his size. Least of all if he was accompanied by his sister of equal proportion. The recognition aside, it was now a matter of what to do. Snape had made it very, very  clear he wasn’t supposed to open the door to anyone, and Uncle Vernon was undoubtedly included in the list. Definitely included in the list, seeing as he wasn’t looking very pleased to him either. 

Uncle Vernon started to pound against the glass. Aunt Marge soon joined him. The fists didn’t sound like they were pounding on the glass, though. Instead, Harry felt his Uncle’s meaty hands slamming against the back of his head, a vile pulse. His Uncle chose to shout at that moment, rattling the door with a mighty strike. 

“Open this door now, boy!” Uncle Vernon roared, yanking the door handle up and down, “Open it or I’ll do something you’ll regret!” 

Harry’s heart pounded. Fast, unhinged. The morning’s breakfast now very much eager to rise up his throat and out his mouth. Uncle Vernon’s face was starting to color, an extraordinary purple that started to rise from his small neck, ruffling his moustache as it went. Harry’s hands shook the more Uncle Vernon spat out his words. But even then, the impatience on Aunt Marge’s face looked far more lethal. And though Harry had witnessed various dangerous expressions over the years, he could only come up with one person that could rival Aunt Marge in the matter. The same person who had trusted him to not open the door to any guest.

The same person whose trust Harry was about to break.

Still clutching the open jar of ginger, Harry walked to the door, balancing the glass in one hand while he fumbled for the key in his pocket. 

Harry liked to imagine many things. He liked to imagine Snape, at that moment. Running. Running fast. Down the street and towards the shop. Snape wasn’t a knight. He didn’t wear armour; he didn’t fight holy battles. Brave, kind, and honest were all that a hero was and what Snape could never be. But Harry didn’t want a knight in shining armour. Harry didn’t believe in tales and only grew up with the ugly truth called life. And life wasn’t playing fair.

Because Harry wanted an escape.

And Snape didn’t come running down. His coat, mended and patched along the edges, didn’t billow. Snape didn’t come.

Harry’s hands shook while he slipped the key to the lock, the door opening with an ominous click. It turned the dread inside Harry gruesome, his eyes still darting down the street, waiting for the familiar pair of shoes on the cobblestone. Stepping back to let them in, Harry’s back hit the wall when Uncle Vernon hit him by the shoulder while marching forward. Harry cradled his shoulder, now stiff, his body rigid and afraid to move. 

“So-” Uncle Vernon barked, hands on his hips and small eyes darting along the walls while Aunt Marge took a closer look, namely inspecting the jars with a tap against the glass, “-So, you thought you could get away, eh? Thought you tricked us, having Edwin off his rocker, screaming bloody murder in our neighbourhood? In our neighbourhood?” 

Aunt Marge humphed in agreement, plopping down on one of the armchairs, muttering something Harry couldn’t quite understand about leather. 

“Uncle Vernon, please listen to me,” Harry said softly, almost begging. Because, really,  this wasn’t any different than what it was with Snape, was it? An angry adult, a situation where Harry was ‘in the wrong’, and a conflict that needed to be avoided. 

But Snape hadn’t hit him. Or hadn’t hit him yet. Given the situations Harry encountered Snape in a worse mood -because to Harry,  the man was almost always in a bad mood- , Harry expected a slap. Always. Or at least a slash, or a bruise. 

Snape only hurled his words.

Once, they would have hurt. Now, Harry didn't think much of them anymore, considering them to be witty and smart more often than not.

“Suppose you’re going to apologise, eh, boy?” Aunt Marge cut in, rising from the armchair, “Going to apologise to my brother? For what?” she released a mighty laugh, the sort of thing you’d expect from an animal, “It won’t cut it, boy! Not for being a burden, not for a perfectly good family’s suffering-”

“Not for ruining our reputation!” continued Uncle Vernon.

“And almost twelve years of you, an ungrateful brat who can’t appreciate good intent. Out of the pure goodness in their hearts, they took you in! I’m telling you, Vernon,” Aunt Marge pointed at Harry, her lips twisting in a vicious turn, “Something was always wrong with that boy. Bad blood, I say. Oh, I do not blame Petunia, of course,” and she patted Uncle Vernon’s shoulder to emphasize, “Turns up in the best of families, you know. If you remember Uncle Johnathan on our side-”

The rest turned into a strain of rants about random family members Harry hadn’t heard about, before the conversation somehow turned back towards Harry again.

“Of course, tainted with his father’s blood as well. What did you say he did?”

Uncle Vernon threw Harry a snide grin, “Unemployed.”

Harry blushed, feeling on the verge of tears while Aunt Marge threw her head back and laughed, hands cradling her stomach. 
“Unemployed! And that Evans didn’t have half the wit, running off with him-”

“Her surname was Evans?” Harry asked, clapping a hand over his mouth when Aunt Marge and Uncle Vernon both spared him a similar glance, their smiles cut right in half.

Uncle Vernon was the first to react, however, shaking a fat finger in front of his face, “Listen, boy, you will not mention that woman in front of my presence. Do you understand?”

“But Aunt Marge talked about her first!”

“Hold your tongue, you brat!” Aunt Marge screamed, shaking her finger just like her brother was while Harry shrunk away, “Just like her, you are. Never liked her. Bad blood, I tell you. A rightful bitch-”

“No!” Harry shouted, his fingers tight over the jar, “My mother wasn’t- wasn’t whatever you just called her!”

He took a deep breath, not able to bring himself to be guilty about his relatives’ hurt pride.

“She was kind. She was beautiful. She had kind eyes, and silky black hair and-”

Both Dursleys bellowed in laughter, slapping their knees and looking at each other before laughing even louder. Harry bit his lip, darting his eyes between the two, fear pooling inside him. It was horrifying, for reasons Harry didn’t understand, to see them laugh as if he were wrong. As if he didn’t know any better.

The realization came swift and cruel, when Harry wasn’t ready. 

Harry was afraid. Harry was confused.

He wasn’t afraid of Uncle Vernon or Aunt Marge.

He was afraid, because for the first time in his life, Harry wasn’t sure if the image he built of his parents was true: whether his mother did have kind eyes, whether the elder Potter was employed. Whether on that cold, November day, they really had abandoned him out of poverty, burdening him on someone else.

And whether he was wanted at all.

Aunt Marge recovered first, wiping her eye clear of a tear. Shaking her head while she patted her brother’s shoulder, who was now choking and coughing into his hand. 

“A downright mess,” Uncle Vernon managed in between coughs, a terrible screech emitting from his throat, “A mess, no doubt. But you better cut it out, boy. I don’t want to hear another sound from you on the way back to Edwin.”

Both of them turned to walk to the door, an occasional whisper to each other sending them into a fit of laughter uncomfortable to watch or listen.

Harry raised his head, suppressing a sob, and said very slowly and very clearly, braver than he had ever been, “I’m not going back.” 

The whispers ceased, half-cut and comical. The way they turned to face him, however, was nothing to joke about. Uncle Vernon looked confused, which often was the only other expression he managed when he wasn’t angry, and Aunt Marge looked like someone had landed a good kick to her precious (and rather vicious)  dogs. 

“What?”

“I’m-” Harry’s voice cracked, but he hid it with a cough, “I’m not going back with you. Ever. Not when I’ve found-” but what was it that he had found, really? A home, a teacher? A Professor Harry had manipulated himself into liking because there wasn’t anyone else to fit the trusted adult role he wanted? Harry hadn’t found a home. He’d found a map. A map that made witty remarks when he took the wrong road, sure, but a map nonetheless. Harry raised his chin, lifting the jar for a better grip, “Not when I’ve found somewhere I can feel safe. Mast- no, E-Edwin must have told you, but I have a debt to repay, or Professor Snape will report him, and he’ll get arrested, and I’m-I’m sure that… You won’t be safe, either, for selling me to work for him either.”

Uncle Vernon sputtered, his face paling, no doubt contemplating the notion of taking Aunt Marge by the arm and dragging her out of the shop, cursing the brat not to come back, ever. Then Harry would lock the door, slide down the glass, and, after Snape arrived, pretend nothing had ever happened. 

However, that wasn’t to be.

Though Uncle Vernon did sputter, taking hold of Aunt Marge’s arm to lead her out of the shop, Aunt Marge wasn’t as willing to comply. Briefly, he saw the confusion fade into anger. And then Aunt Marge was pouncing towards him. 

Harry wasn’t sure what struck him as odd about the way Aunt Marge prowled towards him. But in the next second, instead of reacting the way he usually would (which would be to cower away and accept whatever was coming), the open jar in Harry’s hands flew past his fingers, whirling in the air  and-

Collided with Aunt Marge. 

A few things happened in the following minutes, all in all in a bizarre, unfathomable sequence.

Aunt Marge shouted out in pain, cradling her head, where the jar had hit without breaking, spilling ginger all over her, making Uncle Vernon catch the jar mid-fall and sweep his sister’s clothes free of the spice. That didn’t help in the least, though Harry found some amusement in it. It didn’t last, though.  Because afterwards, Aunt Marge sputtered, wiping her mouth and trying to rid herself of the spice that had fallen like snow over her jacket and shoulder, decorating her face with brown smudges. 

And then her skin started to burn.

Well, not really, but Harry was well versed in rashes by now, and these were no different. Patches of red appearing like wild marks on her skin, Aunt Marge kept on screaming, wiping her eyes and mouth with the end of her shirt.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” roared Uncle Vernon, running to her side and trying to help her to a chair beside the chimney, dropping the jar in the process, “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“I don’t know!” Harry shouted back, looking around the shop in panic. As if expecting something, or someone, to appear and handle the situation much better than Harry currently was. For Snape to appear, perhaps. Because the longer Aunt Marge screamed, flailing her arms, the more Harry thought that this really wasn’t a normal reaction to ginger. 

Especially not, when Aunt Marge’s back hit the chimney and her arms flung to the shelves, toppling jars shattering,  the herbs and other prized materials showering down into a chaotic mess. 

That wasn’t all that was broken. 

Like the shattered glass, Harry's defenses also shattered: the once familiar smell of Aunt Petunia's perfume blended with the cacophony of breaking glass and shouting adults, inciting a bolt of fear in Harry. Harry was no longer there.He was in his cupboard, terrified. Terrified and angry because this shouldn’t be fair. It couldn’t be fair.
 
Terrified because he was alone. Because it was all his fault. It burned, really, it did. 
Every thought he harboured on his side of the cupboard and the people that waited outside.
The real chaotic heap, as he rocked on the hard floor, something oozing down his back and the throbbing in his bones that would never heal. 

Terrified. Guilty. Breathing hard and then not at all. 

He doesn’t remember the slashes. The hits. Only feels the aftermaths, when he’d rather not feel at all. Because Harry Potter was an orphan. Harry Potter was a burden. Harry Potter was alone and abandoned, unloved, and he only had himself to blame. 

The intrusive thoughts were there, no matter how mindless Harry was when he left the shop, running outside. They were there, no matter how fast Harry sprinted. 

The sharp wind clashed with his skin, ripping his hair away from his face. The buildings around him whirled past in a single, dry colour. Nothing more than a musky background before the tall structures faded into smaller, dirtier piles in a smaller, dirtier street. Harry didn't stop there, either. He ran, ran, and ran. Pausing once or twice to either catch his breath or turn into an alley to escape an approaching stranger.

The river greeted him when he escaped an alleyway, running down a bridge Harry couldn't remember the name of. Panting, Harry placed his hands on his legs, his throat burning and a stitch stabbing into his side. 

A few minutes later, Harry was dragging himself up the bridge that was abandoned for the night. No cars drove past, no horse came galloping down the road. No uncle Vernon dragged him by the neck, no Aunt Marge wrapped her thick hands around his fist. Only the river dared to make any noise, the stars veiled behind dark clouds, hiding the moon. A full moon. 

Harry stalked down the gravel, beside the columns and rails that looked down at the gushing waters below, black and senseless. A void, really, almost fantastical, now that Harry looked at it, his head in between the rails. 

He sighed, wiping his eyes and blinking furiously, trying to get rid of the tears. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction, though they weren't watching. He wouldn't let anyone, even himself, see Harry Potter crying alone, by the bridge, contemplating whether he could survive a jump.

Covering his face with his hands, he slid to the ground, pebbles rough under his new pair of shoes.

New shoes. Harry stared, transfixed, running a hand down the sole. A smile, similar to the one he had when Snape had handed it to him, a size too big so he could wear it next year, growing on his lips. He hoped Snape wouldn't be too angry when he went back.

When he went back? Harry took a mental step back. Would he be going back? Did he even dare? He didn't want to face the wrath of his Uncle and Aunt- 

Harry winced, shaking his head, a new flashback close to surfacing. He wouldn't think about it. Wouldn't ponder it. Harry was not going back. He'd find work elsewhere, not a chimney sweep this time, and send half of his wage to Snape to repay his debt, after which he would save some for his family, for Oliver, Marie-Lue and the others. He would buy a house, buy food and they would find happiness, not relying on prayers and adults any longer. 

Harry pushed himself away from the railing in new found motivation, feeling like for once, he could shoulder the world. Taking a deep breath, he turned on his heel, chest puffed out and took the first step down the shale. 

He did a double take when he heard a train, or at least something large down the road. A great knobbling sound on approach.

Harry’s brows knit closer as he frowned, blinking multiple times in the direction of the puffing. Rubbing his chin, he tilted his neck for a better view, squinting in the direction of two blurry flames peeking through the darkness. Surely it couldn’t be a train. His knowledge on the locomotives was scarce to none, but even Harry knew that no train could travel without rails or spew as little noise as this train did. 

Harry wouldn’t deny his curiosity. 

The train was approaching, now, faster than any carriage Harry had seen on the road. Turning his body to the source, Harry began to walk, his parted lips tilting in a slight smile. 

At that moment, Harry thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, along with a prickling feeling that he was being watched, but the bridge seemed deserted, and no light shone other than those of the train.  On the other side of the bridge, the side he’d come from, came a single sound. Harry squinted, turning his head for a better view. He didn't stop walking, though. The shape grew in size, tall and lumpy. But Harry didn’t have time to untangle what it was because the  lump disappeared as soon as the train, which really wasn’t a train, appeared, sending Harry toppling down to the floor with a yell. 

Harry winced, rubbing his arm, which he had flung to block his fall.  A small throb ached on his side too,  while the, well, giant carriage’s puffing stopped, like a person holding their breath. Not only that, but the metal seemed to bend, as if it had run miles upon miles and now needed to take in deep breaths. 

One giant wheel stopped where Harry’s feet had been seconds ago, the many horses drawing it skidding their hooves on the road. They belonged, of course, to a violently purple train (Harry didn’t know what else to call it, though he had seen something similar to this before), which had appeared out of thin air. Gold letters on the side spelled The Knight Bus. Ridiculous. What good would putting the K in front of night do if you had to read it as K-night? 

Harry wondered if the fall damaged more than his arm. Then a conductor leaped out of the bus and began to speak loudly into the night.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency bus for the stranded persons. Just stick in your money, hop on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name-”

“What?” Harry said, bewildered, because there were more than a few things to be bewildered about. So while Harry pushed himself up, he began with the first of all his concerns.

“The Knight Bus?”

“That’s what I’ve said. Now, my name-”

“But it starts with a K! How can it be read as night when it starts with K?”

The man lowered the paper cards from where he was reading from and eyed Harry suspiciously. 

“Who taught you how to read?”

Harry frowned, “A professor.”

The conductor laughed, his voice echoing in the air, “Well, I’m no professor. I don’t know myself, so don’t ask me, but it is read as it is read. Ask your professor when you see him again.”

“I’m not seeing him again,” Harry said, shuffling on his feet.

The conductor shrugged, then eyed the pavement, “What were you doin’ down there?”

“Fell over,” said Harry.

“‘Choo fell over over for?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Harry, annoyed. One of the knees on his new trousers was torn, and the hand he had thrown out to break his fall had a nasty gash. Harry dusted himself with dismay, then turned to face the side of the bridge where the black shape had been. Nothing, of course, Harry noted with a sigh, inspecting his trousers again with a deep frown.

“‘Choo lookin’ at?” said the condutor.

Harry stared at the man, then shook his head, “Nothing. So, you said you’d take me anywhere, did you?”

“That’s what the Knight Bus is for,” the conductor said, lifting his cards again, “My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening. Have any money on you?” 

Harry dug his hands into his pockets, surprised to find them both full. One had the key to the safe box. Harry dropped the key back inside with red ears, and lifted his other hand with the money Snape had told him to put inside the safe box, “Is this enough?”

Stan took the money, counted some in his palm, and looked at Harry, “Depends. Where do you want to go?”

Harry’s shoulders fell. Where did Harry want to go? Somewhere to work, surely, but where was somewhere he could work while being safe? He looked up at Stan, his face shadowed, and asked him instead, “Somewhere I can work safely. Where people won’t question me or where I’ve come from.”

Stan lifted a finger to scratch his hair under his cap. A moment later he clapped his hands, counted the money again. He pocketed some,  and dropped the rest into Harry’s palm.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus!” he declared, ushering him up the steps and into the bus, which, other than the compartment reserved for the driver, was just two rows of seats on each side, and a long, wide one at the very back. The seats weren’t what was remarkable, though. It was the passengers. They lay on their backs and sides on wide, frail looking cushions with blankets draped over their bodies.

“No luggage?” asked Stan with an air of confirmation. Harry nodded and Stan led him to a seat right behind the driver, which looked to be the only empty seat among the fifteen or so. Harry noted that this row of seats were all occupied by men, while the other side only had women lining them.

“This is our driver, Ernie Prang. Ern, this is- eh, you never told me your name, dincha? Woss your name, kid?”

“Neville Longbottom,” said Harry, saying the first name that came to his head. Snape hadn’t used his name with the kind Professor Patel, afterall, and told him not to tell anyone anything about himself.  Nevilles’s name was unfortunate to come to mind because Mrs Augusta Longbottom had gone on a lengthy situation with Snape about her grandchild while buying his medicine, making Harry feel a little sorry for the boy, “So- so this bus,” he went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, “It goes anywhere? Anywhere?”

“Well, the distance is important, of course, and depends on how much time you have on your hands, but bother that, now,” Stan said, shutting him up with a flick of his hand, “Diagon Alley, Ern. Take ‘er away.”

Ernie, an eldery man wearing very thick glasses, nodded to Harry, who nervously flattened his fringe. The two lights Harry had seen from a distance were glowing warmly on Ernie’s side.

The bus gave a hard jolt, then a BANG, before resonating with the familiar knobling Harry heard, and the bus was off, travelling on the gravel with speed Harry was not accustomed to. He had seen large carriages, of course, and dreamt of riding one someday. But now, Harry would have preferred the small carriage,the rows of seats sliding about as the bus flew down the road.

“How did you know I was stranded?” Harry asked Stan who now had a newspaper lifted to the light and read while shaking on his spot by the door.

“Didn’t,” Stan said, turning the page, the paper ruffling from the wind that whistled through the window of Ernie’s compartment, “Passing by, and we saw you on the street, sort of lonely looking. Why?” he said, looking at Harry from above the papers, “Aren’t you stranded?”

Harry shrugged, lifting his head to look out through the window. Upon seeing nothing but black and dark, Harry looked back at Stan, “I think I am. But what about this Diagon Alley? Will I be able to work there? Without, well, you know,” Harry grabbed his arms, licking his lips nervously, “Where I won’t be pushed away because of my... skin color?” 

“Happened a lot, that, did it?” Stan said, still turning another page with an airy tone that seemed to dismiss him entirely. 

“Happened enough,” Harry said, pulling his legs onto the seat and leaning on the window, some memories resurfacing. Harry cleaning himself up, parting his rowdy hair and dusting his clothes, presenting himself only to be turned away by one employer and the next. Soot was good, in that way. It tainted even the palest person black, and was a perfect disguise for one to walk in town without a second glance. 

“There are those that stand against it. Those that kill others for it,” Harry looked up with a horrified expression, “But Diagon Alley don't judge a man by the skin. Though with Black around, not many are keen on hiring strangers.”

“Black?” Harry repeated, sort of relieved, then squinted at the newspaper,  “Is that the murderer that’s walking around?” 

“‘Course he was, Neville. Where you been?”

He gave a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look on Harry’s face, removed the front page, and handed it to Harry. 

Harry took a single glance before holding it up for Stan, “I can’t read in this light.”

“I reckon not, with those reading abilities of yours. You oughta read the papers more, Neville. Good practice,” he shook his head, refusing to take the page back, “Already read it. I think you need it more than me.”

Harry muttered a thanks and folded the paper, fitting some of it inside his pocket, though half still protruded, “So how long until Diagon Alley?” Harry asked, still trying to stuff the page inside without ripping anything.

“Quite close, eh, Ern?” 

“Ar,” said Ernie darkly.

Stan spun to face him, hands on the back of his head, “You weren’t far, when we picked you up. Cut the fare down slim, dincha?”

Harry blinked. Crossing his arms, he leaned his head on the hard back of the seat tiredly, the events of the night playing in his mind before Harry pushed them away, refusing to think about it, “Hope they have an inn, there. I’m exhausted.”

“You can get a few nights at the Leaky Cauldron,” Stan said, patting his pocket where Harry’s, well, Snape’s money was, “A week, if you're lucky.”

“The Leaky what?”

“Blimey, Neville,” Stan said, crossing the distance between them to flick him on the head, “You really hit your head, dincha?”

Harry supposed he had. Closing his eyes, he leaned on the wood again, dozing off only to open them soon after when Ernie slammed his foot down and the bus skidded to a halt. Surprised no one had slipped down the seats, Harry pushed himself up, about to resume his sleep when Stan opened the door, “That’s you, Neville,” he said, and jumped down the steps, shivering and missing his jacket.

“Thanks,” Harry said to both of them.

“You get your head checked, Neville,” Stan said, and the bus rolled off again, puffing and flying down the road at a speed that still confused Harry. 

Turning around, Harry faced the front of a small, shabby-looking pub. The Leaky Cauldron stood as dead as the night.

Steering himself towards the entrance, Harry lingered there, debating whether to knock or not. He took a deep breath, gripped the door handle and pushed, leading the way to an interior that wasn’t very different from the outside.

The bell that chimed above him brought out a man from a door inside. He was holding a lantern, and when Harry walked forward, he saw the stooping figure of a man who was giving him a toothless grin, “Welcome, young man. Room for the night?”

“Uh, well, yeah,” Harry said, nodding his head.

“Would you like to pay now, or in the morning?”

Harry’s shoulders sagged in relief. With a small smile, he nodded, “In the morning, please.”

The man nodded, walking to the door he had come in from, leaving Harry in the dark until he came back out, key in hand, “Come with me.”

Harry followed the man up a dingy, unstable set of wooden stairs that creaked at every step. Not trusting the railing, Harry balanced himself using the wall, sleep getting harder to fend off by the minute.
At the first floor, the man turned right, stopping at the end of the corridor and slipping the key inside. The lock turned in a satisfying click, and the door opened to a dark, small room with an even smaller bed.

“Your room is number ten,” the man said, pushing the key to Harry’s hand.

Harry stifled a yawn, his eyes burning, “Thank you, er-”

“Tom,” the man said, his voice hazy in Harry's ears. Nodding, Harry walked inside, closing the door but not locking it. Instead, he threw himself onto the bed, not bothering with the blankets, and closed his eyes.

Sleep came easily, that night.