Harry Potter and why is life so difficult?

The first time I became aware of myself, it was night, and I was lying in a tiny, cramped room under a set of stairs. My first coherent thought was confusion: Wait, what? This isn't right. Where am I? Why am I so small? My body felt strange—smaller, weaker—and the surroundings, though unfamiliar, had a weird sense of déjà vu about them.

What's going on? I tried to piece it together, but nothing came to mind. My only explanation was that I had to be dreaming. Yeah, that's it—a dream. A weird one, but still a dream. The tiny space, with its dim lighting and filthy blanket, was painfully boring for something my brain had supposedly conjured up. Really? If I'm dreaming, I could be flying or eating a feast, and this is what my imagination gives me? A depressing little room?

I groaned in frustration. Maybe I've got some deep-seated trauma or something. Fantastic. Deciding to salvage what I could of this bizarre situation, I tried to leave the room. I crawled to the door, gave the handle a tug, and—nothing. The door wouldn't budge. I pulled harder. Still stuck.

What the hell? I can't even open a door in my own dream? This was ridiculous. I slumped back, exasperated. Well, this sucks. Fine. I'll just go back to sleep and hopefully wake up somewhere less pathetic.

Before I could even attempt it, a loud knock against the door made me jump, followed by a shrill voice screeching, "FREAK! WAKE UP AND MAKE BREAKFAST NOW!"

I flinched at the sound, my heart pounding. What the hell? Who is this crazy lady?

This jolted me awake—or so I thought. My eyes snapped open to the same cramped, dingy room under the stairs. My heart raced. It wasn't just the voice that startled me; it was the realization that the scene hadn't shifted or morphed like a normal dream. My pulse thudded in my ears. The crazy lady outside kept banging on the door, yelling unintelligibly now.

Wait… this wasn't my life. I didn't have a tiny room under the stairs, and I sure as hell didn't know anyone who screamed like that. Something wasn't adding up.

"Coming!" I yelled back automatically, though my voice sounded strange to my ears. It was... higher-pitched? Softer? That gave me pause. What the heck was happening to me?

Pushing aside the tattered blanket, I crawled out of the cot. My limbs felt awkward, like they weren't the right size or didn't fit me properly. I stumbled, catching sight of my reflection in a small, cracked mirror on the wall.

"What the—?" I leaned closer, dread and confusion tangling into a knot in my chest. The face staring back wasn't mine. It was younger, rounder, framed by messy dark hair. This wasn't a dream. Or if it was, it was one of those vivid, disorienting ones you couldn't shake off.

The banging on the door turned more insistent. "Get out here, freak! Or do you want me to tell Vernon?"

I winced at the shrill voice and stumbled out of the small space under the stairs. The hallway felt bigger than I expected, and I felt unsteady on my feet, like I wasn't used to walking properly. Was I… smaller than I thought? Something still wasn't making sense, but the impatience in the woman's voice didn't leave room for reflection.

"Finally!" she snapped as I shuffled into the kitchen. The woman was thin, with a sharp nose and a permanent scowl. "Do I have to do everything myself? The bacon's in the fridge, eggs are on the counter. You know where the pans are. Move it, boy."

"Uh…" I stared blankly at her. Cooking? Me? I couldn't even wrap my head around what was happening, let alone manage a stove. "I don't think I can—"

She cut me off with an exasperated sigh. "Oh, for heaven's sake. You've done it before! Just get on with it!" She grabbed me by the arm—not too roughly, but firmly enough to make it clear I didn't have a choice—and shoved me toward the counter.

My heart pounded. The counter loomed above me like a wall. I was too short to reach it properly, let alone see what I was doing. Before I could say anything, she yanked a chair over, scraping it against the floor with an ear-splitting screech.

"Stand on this," she barked, gesturing at the chair.

I climbed up awkwardly, nearly losing my balance. From my new vantage point, I could just barely see the stovetop. The woman—the crazy lady—thrust a frying pan into my hands, then started pulling things out of the fridge.

"Bacon. Eggs. Bread. Get it done." She slammed the items onto the counter and walked away, muttering something under her breath about ungrateful children.

I stared at the ingredients, feeling completely overwhelmed. How was I supposed to cook? I didn't know what I was doing! But my hands, small as they were, moved on their own. They struggled to grip the pan, cracked eggs sloppily into a bowl, and awkwardly laid bacon strips into the sizzling pan.

"Careful!" the woman barked when some grease popped. "Don't burn it!"

I winced but kept going, my hands trembling as I flipped the bacon and stirred the eggs. The whole process felt clumsy, and I was sure I'd messed it up somehow, but eventually, the food looked passable. I wasn't sure how I'd managed to finish without burning the house down.

As I finished, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. Two figures entered the kitchen, and I blinked at them. The first was a huge man, his stomach straining against his shirt and his face set in a permanent scowl. The second was a boy, equally round, with a mop of blond hair and a smug grin plastered across his face.

The man—Vernon, I guessed—grunted and plopped into a chair. "Took you long enough," he muttered, pulling a newspaper from the table and snapping it open. The boy—Dudley, judging by the woman's shrill calls earlier—ambled to the table and practically drooled at the sight of the food.

As I placed the plates in front of them, I couldn't help but stare. They were enormous. The boy, especially, seemed more food than child, and the way he shoveled bacon into his mouth was enough to make me lose my appetite.

"What are you looking at?" Dudley sneered, his mouth full. I quickly looked away, feeling a flush of irritation but biting my tongue.

When everyone was served, I glanced at the counter where the remaining scraps of food were still sitting. My stomach growled, and I hesitantly reached for a piece of toast.

"What do you think you're doing?" the woman snapped, freezing me in my tracks.

"I—I was just—" I stammered, unsure how to respond.

"You don't eat until the rest of us are finished," she said, her voice ice-cold. "And if there's anything left. Now clean up that mess."

The man lowered his newspaper just long enough to glare at me. "And be quick about it, boy."

My stomach churned, but I didn't argue. Swallowing my pride, I climbed down from the chair and started tidying up, all while the sounds of Dudley and Vernon noisily devouring their breakfast filled the room.

The days blurred together into a miserable haze of chores, shouting, and constant hunger. The Dursleys, as I'd come to understand their names—Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley—treated me like some sort of live-in servant. Every morning, I'd wake up to Petunia's shrill screeching, spend the day scrubbing floors or washing dishes, and collapse into the cot under the stairs with my stomach growling.

The hunger was the worst part. Meals were small, if I got any at all. Dudley, a boy who seemed to live for torment, delighted in snatching food off my plate whenever his parents weren't looking. Vernon, always red-faced and angry, seemed to get some sick satisfaction out of yelling at me for the smallest mistakes.

By the third day, I was running on fumes. My hands shook as I scrubbed another pot in the sink, and my vision blurred every time I stood too quickly. I was starting to wonder if I'd just pass out and wake up somewhere else—anywhere else. This life couldn't be real.

Then it happened.

I was carrying a tray of tea into the living room when my trembling hands gave out. The tray clattered to the ground, sending teacups and hot liquid splattering across the carpet.

"What the devil—?" Vernon bellowed, springing to his feet. His face turned a dangerous shade of purple as he looked at the mess. "You clumsy little freak! Do you know how much that carpet cost?"

"I—I'm sorry!" I stammered, panic rising in my chest. I bent down to pick up the shattered pieces, but Vernon's heavy foot stomped down on my hand, pinning it to the floor.

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" he snarled, leaning down to tower over me. His breath reeked of coffee and ham. "You think you can just ruin everything and walk away?"

The pain in my hand was excruciating, but something inside me snapped. Exhaustion, hunger, and sheer frustration boiled over, and before I knew what I was doing, I shoved him. Hard.

Vernon staggered backward, his foot slipping on the spilled tea. He toppled onto the couch with a heavy thud, his face a mix of shock and fury. I froze, realizing what I'd done. My heart pounded as he struggled to sit up, his eyes locking onto mine like a predator sizing up its prey.

"You little—" he began, but I didn't stay to hear the rest. I scrambled to my feet and bolted for the stairs, my bare feet slipping on the floor. I threw myself into the tiny space under the stairs and yanked the door shut, holding it closed with trembling hands.

For a long moment, all I could hear was my ragged breathing. Then Vernon's voice boomed through the house. "Get back here, boy! You think you can get away with that?"

I didn't answer. My hands found a small, cracked mirror mounted on the wall of my cupboard, and I stared at my reflection.

My heart sank. My face was pale and thin, with dark circles under my eyes from too many sleepless nights. But what caught my attention was the jagged scar on my forehead. It was a thin, lightning-shaped mark, just above my right eyebrow.

I reached up and touched it, wincing slightly. It felt familiar somehow, like it should mean something. But no matter how hard I wracked my brain, I couldn't remember why.

The pounding on the cupboard door snapped me out of my thoughts. "You're going to regret this, boy!" Vernon roared.

I shrank back against the wall, my fingers still brushing the scar. What was happening to me? And why did I feel like this scar was part of an answer I couldn't quite grasp?

The next three days were worse than anything I'd experienced before. Vernon was furious after our scuffle, and Petunia seemed to have doubled down on her disdain. They didn't let me eat at all—no scraps, no leftovers, nothing. Every task I completed was met with scowls and complaints, and Dudley took every opportunity to shove me, trip me, or "accidentally" knock things into my path.

Bruises bloomed across my arms and legs from the rough treatment, and my stomach felt like it was folding in on itself. My head throbbed constantly from hunger, and every movement sent a sharp ache through my body. It wasn't just the physical pain, though. The humiliation, the constant reminders that I was nothing to them, cut deeper than anything else.

By the time I crawled back into the cupboard on the third night, I knew I couldn't take it anymore. My body was too weak, my spirit too drained. Whatever this strange new life was, I wasn't staying here to find out. I'd had enough.

If there was one advantage I had, it was my mind. Whatever had happened to me—this strange new body, this unfamiliar world—my thoughts were still sharp, still my own. I was older inside than they realized, and that meant I could think my way out of this mess.

The plan came to me slowly, pieced together as I lay staring at the ceiling of my cupboard. Running away wasn't something I took lightly, but I couldn't see another option. I'd die if I stayed here, either from hunger or something worse.

The key to surviving out there, though, was preparation. I couldn't just walk out the door and hope for the best. I needed supplies—food, water, maybe some money—and I needed to steal them without raising suspicion.

The next morning, I started small. While scrubbing the kitchen floor, I noticed a nearly full loaf of bread in the cupboard. Petunia was busy fussing over Dudley, who was whining about his toast being too cold. While her back was turned, I slipped a slice into my oversized pocket. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Over the next two days, I made a point of being quieter, smaller, less noticeable. While Vernon barked orders and Dudley shoved me around, I kept my head down and worked as quickly as I could, always watching for opportunities. Every chore was a chance to find something useful—a can of beans from the pantry, a bottle of water left on the counter, even loose coins in the sofa cushions.

By the end of the second day, I had a small stash hidden under the loose floorboard in my cupboard: three slices of bread, a tin of sardines, a small bottle of water, and about four pounds in coins I'd scavenged. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get me started.

The next part of my plan was trickier. I needed to figure out when the Dursleys would be too distracted to notice me slipping out. The current summer season was on my side—it was warm enough that I wouldn't freeze if I ended up sleeping on the streets for a few nights, and the longer days gave me more light to work with.

That evening, while Vernon and Dudley were engrossed in a loud television program, I quietly tested the front door. It was locked, of course, but the latch was old and rusty. If I could find something thin enough to slide into the gap, I might be able to jimmy it open. Alternatively, there was a window in the kitchen that didn't shut properly—another possible escape route.

As I lay in my cupboard that night, running through the steps of my plan, I felt the faintest flicker of hope. It wasn't much, but it was more than I'd felt in days. If I could just get away from this place—find an orphanage, or at least survive on the streets until I figured out my next move—I'd have a chance. A real chance.

I wasn't going to let the Dursleys break me. Not now. Not ever.

The night of my escape was perfect. Vernon's snores rumbled through the house, and the faint hum of the television told me Petunia had fallen asleep in front of one of her nightly soap operas. I slipped out of the cupboard, my pillowcase bundle slung over my shoulder. The loose window in the kitchen creaked faintly as I pushed it open, and the cool night air hit my face like a promise.

I climbed out, heart pounding, and made my way across the yard. Over the fence, past the alley—each step felt like breaking a chain. When I finally reached the quiet streets, I took one last look at the Dursleys' house before turning away for good.

Freedom tasted like the warm summer night, and for the first time, I felt like I could breathe.

I was scrubbing the kitchen floor again, my knees aching against the hard tile, and the faint scent of bleach stung my nose. My stomach growled miserably, echoing the hollowness in my chest. This sucks, I thought, not for the first time, as I scrubbed at a particularly stubborn stain. The routine, the hunger, the constant berating from Vernon and Petunia—it all felt inescapable.

I should escape, the thought whispered. My hand paused mid-scrub. But I can't. I shouldn't. Running isn't right.

The contradiction gnawed at me. Why wouldn't it be right? Leaving would be logical—it would be survival. And yet, the moment I considered it, a wave of unease rose within me, like a barrier in my mind. It was wrong to run, I thought. Unthinkable.

But was it really?

The thought wouldn't let go. As the day wore on, the quiet itch at the back of my mind turned into a roaring discomfort. Something wasn't adding up. My memories felt strange—disjointed. The past few days were a blur of misery and chores, but something lingered, just out of reach.

That night, lying on the thin cot in the cupboard, I forced myself to confront it. My thoughts felt sluggish, like trudging through thick mud, but I pushed harder. Why am I here? Why don't I just leave?

And then it hit me.

I'd tried. I had left. I could see flashes of it now—preparations, stealing food, slipping through the window into the night. The memories were faint, buried under layers of fog, but they were there.

Panic coursed through me. Why did I come back? The answer didn't make sense. I didn't choose this. It was like my will had been overridden, like someone had reached into my mind and rewired my thoughts.

The realization sent a chill down my spine. It's like I've been brainwashed.

I gritted my teeth, forcing the compulsion to stay down. My head ached, and my heart pounded in my chest, but slowly, the fog lifted. It was hard to describe—it was like peeling away a second skin I didn't know I'd been wearing.

This isn't normal. My thoughts felt clearer, sharper. Something unnatural had been done to me, and as I lay there trembling, one word surfaced in my mind.

Magic.

I sat up in the cramped space, my pulse racing. My hands were shaking, but my mind was finally my own. My heart sank as I pieced things together: the strange compulsion, the odd sense of familiarity about this house, and then… my scar.

I touched it, the lightning-bolt shape just above my forehead. It felt warm under my fingertips, almost alive, and something about it sent another shiver through me.

The word "Dursley" rattled in my brain. I'd heard it over and over since waking up here. The scar. The name. The strange, dreamlike reality of my situation.

And then it clicked, with a sinking weight in my stomach.

I'm Harry Potter.

"...Fuck."