Chapter Text
Fifteen year old Harry Potter was finished. He was finished with the seesawing adulation and antagonism the Wizarding world threw at him, he was finished with the expectations and demands of strangers. He was finished with the way the fates seemed to toy with him, the way his life seemed to be a long string of unfortunate occurrences that no other single person would be forced to endure. He was just finished.
Hadn’t it been enough to have lost his parents before he’d even known them? Wasn't it enough to have been left in what was likely the least friendly household possible for his childhood? Wasn't it enough that he had faced near-death situations every year since starting Hogwarts for a war he’d never had a choice about joining? He hadn't asked for this life. He hadn't done anything to deserve the praise and attention or the derision and trials. But he’d still tried his damndest to work through it all and take life as it came at him.
But now... this. This really was the icing on the cake. Sirius was dead. He’d finally had an adult that had seen him as a human being, someone to be cherished and loved for more than just his defeat of Voldemort as a child. Sirius had had his flaws, of course; Harry had known that his godfather had seen James far more often than Harry himself, but at least he’d loved him. He had been the first person Harry had ever had to look up to without getting hatred or unwarranted regard in return.
At first he had blamed himself for Sirius's death. Sometimes he still did. He could have tried harder at Occlumency or even just thought a little bit more before he acted. No matter what the hat had said all those years ago, he was almost too Gryffindor at times, charging headfirst into danger without a backwards glance. He was brave before he was wise, but it had always worked out for the best. Looking back, he was lucky more people hadn’t died while he’d rushed ahead. He knew he was not without blame.
For all he had blame, though, he knew he was not alone in it. He was fifteen years old and barely educated, how in Merlin's name did they expect him to know reality from a trap? No one had thought to tell him that such things could be faked, instead sticking him in a room with the Greasy Git and expecting him to listen to the old bat when he snapped out for Harry to clear his mind. How? How was he supposed to do even that, let alone keep Voldemort out? How was he to know how much Voldemort was able to do with a thoroughfare into his mind? His ignorance had cost him dearly, no matter whose fault it was.
Was that their grand plan, perhaps, to leave him so alone and full of pain that he would simply slay their enemy and then die with a smile?
Dumbledore was a good man at heart, Harry was sure. It wasn't intentional that he treated Harry as a weapon in his multi-decade war… he was just trying to do what he thought was best. He had the best intentions of the entire world mapped out in his mind, and what was one boy stacked up against all that? But, good intentions or no, Harry had no qualms against taking himself out of the plans laid for him. It was his life after all, damnit, and he could choose his own path. Dumbledore could find someone else to play the savior.
Harry didn't want the title, the responsibilities. And what did he have to lose anymore if he just… left? Took his life back into his own hands and left behind all those expectations?
He collected the last of his belongings from the dingy bedroom that had been 'his' for the last four summers, stuffing everything into his pockets that would fit and filling a small rucksack with the few other belongings he cared for. He was thankful that his most important possessions were not kept in the school trunk that he doubted he would ever see again, locked downstairs in his old cupboard as it was. He supposed he could break into it and retrieve the trunk, but it would only slow him down. He wanted to be gone, and he didn't want to risk being caught before he was well away from Surrey.
Harry was pleased to find that Vernon had forgotten to lock the deadbolts on his bedroom door that morning, and he whistled jauntily as he took the stairs two at a time. He was ready – so ready – to be gone and on his way out of the life he had been forced into.
Without a word to his family, he was out the door, down the street, and away from Privet Drive forever. He wouldn't come back unless they had him bound and gagged, he promised himself that.
He made it nearly a block down Wisteria Walk before a figure stepped out of the shadows, a tall man with waist length black hair and a charming smile. The smile managed to be wholly pleasant while still retaining a sharp danger to it, the easy way he cocked his head making Harry think of a predator. Golden eyes focused on him and Harry was halted, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He couldn’t even grab for his wand, frozen as he was.
"Harry Potter…" the man said in an unidentifiable accent. His smile only grew as Harry took a step back warily. Fangs were prominent in that grin. "I've been waiting for an opportunity to speak to you."