Harry Potter and why is life so difficult?

The days that followed were nothing short of grueling. Every morning started with Petunia's shrill voice screaming at me to get up, and every evening ended with me collapsing into my cramped cupboard, aching and hungry. The cycle of chores, insults, and Dudley's constant bullying made time blur together into a monotonous, miserable haze.

But amidst the drudgery, one thought kept nagging at me: Why am I so ordinary?

I had pieced together the basics of who I was—Harry Potter. It felt surreal, like uncovering someone else's life in fragments. A boy with a lightning-bolt scar, somehow famous for something I didn't understand. Magic was real, that much I knew. The compulsion in my head, the strange circumstances of my return to the Dursleys, all of it pointed to forces I couldn't explain.

But that just made things more confusing. If I was supposed to be special, where was the magic? Shouldn't I have powers? Abilities? Something?

After another miserable day of scrubbing floors and dodging Dudley's fat fists, I crawled into the cupboard with a bruised arm and an irritated mind. This is ridiculous, I thought, staring at the dark, slanted ceiling. If I'm supposed to be magical, then let's see it.

The next day, when I had a rare moment alone, I decided to experiment. I stood in the backyard, hidden behind the overgrown shrubs, and tried everything I could think of.

"Lumos!" I whispered, pointing a finger like a wand. Nothing happened.

"Come forth broom!" I tried, looking around to see if anything moved. Still nothing.

I waved my hands dramatically, hoping to spark some mystical force, but the only thing that came of it was me nearly tripping over my too-big shoes.

At one point, I even stared intensely at Dudley's soda can, willing it to fly into my hand with pure force of concentration. It didn't budge.

By the end of the day, I was beyond frustrated. What kind of wizard can't even do a stupid spell? I thought angrily as I scrubbed the dishes. Dudley had stomped past earlier, smacking me upside the head with his elbow "accidentally," and Vernon had growled at me for splashing too much water.

If I was supposed to be special—some chosen one or whatever—why did my life look like this? Where was the magic? Where was the escape?

That night, I stared at the scar in the cracked mirror of the bathroom, tracing the lightning-bolt shape with a finger. It felt like a cruel joke. Whatever had brought me here had left me powerless, stuck in the same miserable existence as before.

I was Harry Potter, wasn't I?

So where the hell was the magic?

Life at the Dursleys was relentless. Each day felt heavier than the last, a cycle of insults, bruises, and hunger that never seemed to end. I scrubbed floors, cooked meals, and endured Dudley's constant jabs, both verbal and physical, all under the watchful glare of Vernon and Petunia. My body ached from their "punishments," and my stomach growled ceaselessly. It wasn't just misery—it was suffocation.

I hated it. Every moment spent in this house was a reminder of how trapped I was. My initial escape had failed, but I couldn't shake the memory of that brief taste of freedom, fleeting as it was. It made this life even harder to endure. Every thought of escaping, however, came with a gnawing unease that tugged at the edges of my mind. I shoved it down, trying to focus on what mattered: I need to get out of here.

I sat in my cupboard one night, staring at the slanted ceiling, my thoughts a tangled mess. The memory of my escape was blurry. I remembered running—planning carefully, slipping through the kitchen window, and disappearing into the night. But everything after that was a blank. How had I ended up back here? What had gone wrong?

It had to be the wizards. The thought came unbidden, but it made sense. They must have caught me and dragged me back. Worse, they had somehow messed with my mind. The compulsion I'd broken free from, the fuzzy memories—it all pointed to them. Magic, I thought bitterly. The word tasted like a curse.

But now I knew. I wasn't going to let them catch me again.

The next morning, I began preparing again. My movements were careful, deliberate. I couldn't afford mistakes this time. While doing the laundry, I slipped a spare T-shirt and a pair of socks into a corner of my cupboard, hidden under my mattress. During chores, I kept an eye out for loose change. Vernon always left coins on the counter, and I'd managed to swipe a few without anyone noticing. They jingled faintly in a small pouch I'd made from an old sock.

Food was harder. Petunia counted everything obsessively, but I managed to smuggle a few slices of bread and an apple, which I wrapped in a rag and hid with my clothes.

When I wasn't stealing supplies, I thought about my route. My last escape had been too simple, too obvious. This time, I needed to get as far from Privet Drive as possible, as quickly as possible. The streets weren't safe; the wizards had found me once, and they could do it again.

That was when I thought of the buses.

While running an errand for Petunia, I paid close attention to the bus stop at the end of the street. A small schedule was pinned to the side of the shelter, listing destinations I barely recognized. I lingered longer than I should have, squinting at the unfamiliar names.

Watford, Slough, Bristol—any of them would work. All I needed was distance. I traced the route with my finger, mentally calculating how far I could get with the coins I'd saved. It wouldn't be much, but it might be enough to get me out of the city and off the wizards' radar.

As I walked back to the house, clutching Petunia's dry cleaning, a flicker of hope sparked in my chest. For the first time in days, I felt like I had a chance. If I could just get to the bus station, I could disappear into the crowds, hop on a bus, and leave this miserable life behind.

That night, I lay awake in my cupboard, staring at the darkness. My bundle of supplies was ready, tucked neatly under the floorboard. The coins jingled faintly in their sock-pouch when I checked them earlier. My route was planned, and the bus stop schedule was etched into my memory.

But doubt still lingered, a stubborn echo in my mind. What if they find you again? The thought made my stomach churn, but I pushed it aside. This time, I'd be smarter, faster. I had to be.

The Dursleys' snores filtered through the house, and I closed my eyes, rehearsing the plan again. Just a few more days. I needed to wait for the right moment, and then I'd be gone.

This time, I wouldn't come back.

Everything was ready. My pillowcase bundle was carefully packed with stolen food, spare clothes, and my precious few coins. The night was quiet as I slipped out of the cupboard, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and exhilaration. I moved silently through the house, slipping through the loose kitchen window with practiced ease. This time, there was no hesitation, no turning back.

The streets were eerily calm, lit by faint pools of orange light from the streetlamps. I hurried down the block, clutching my bundle tightly. My destination was clear: the bus station. I had memorized the schedule and route. If all went well, I'd be gone from Little Whinging before anyone even noticed.

I reached the station with minutes to spare, sliding my coins across the counter to buy a ticket to Watford. The bus arrived in a huff of diesel and heat, and as I stepped aboard and sank into a worn seat, a wave of relief washed over me.

As the town disappeared into the distance, a tentative smile crossed my face. I was free. For the first time, I let myself imagine a new life—a low-key existence in a different city. No Dursleys, no screaming, no hunger. Just peace.

The harsh light of morning spilled into the cupboard as Petunia's voice screeched through the house. I groaned, my body aching as I shifted on the lumpy cot. My ribs protested sharply—a reminder of Vernon's last fit of rage. Another day at the Dursleys.

Another day of this miserable life.

I hauled myself out of the cupboard and shuffled toward the kitchen, the familiar pain in my legs slowing me down. My body bore the marks of years under their care—scars crisscrossed my back and arms, and my malnourished frame felt weak and brittle. I winced as I scrubbed at the sink, the hot water burning a fresh cut on my hand.

Has it really been a year? The thought hit me like a gut punch. A year of this hell. I couldn't even remember a time when I'd thought of leaving. The idea seemed distant, impossible. But why?

As the days passed, the gnawing sense of wrongness grew stronger. It was subtle at first, a faint unease tugging at the back of my mind as I scrubbed the bathroom floor or cooked dinner for the Dursleys. But the more I tried to ignore it, the more insistent it became, like a splinter I couldn't reach.

Why am I still here? The thought came unbidden one evening as I lay in the cupboard, staring at the cracked ceiling. My body ached, my ribs sharp against the thin mattress, and yet I didn't move. I didn't try to move. Why?

The question stayed with me, buzzing like a persistent fly. At first, the answer seemed obvious: I have nowhere to go. No one to turn to. But something about that answer felt off. It wasn't real. It wasn't mine.

The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity. The thoughts in my head—they weren't mine. The certainty I felt about staying, about belonging here, was like a script someone else had written. That spark of understanding was all it took for the fog to begin lifting.

It wasn't an instant revelation. The compulsion didn't break like glass—it frayed, unraveling thread by thread. I wrestled with it day and night, each step forward accompanied by an ache deep in my head, like my brain was fighting itself. Every time I thought I'd shaken free, the compulsion would whisper louder, drowning out my resolve.

You can't leave. You'll only fail. This is your place.

But I fought. I had to. The more I pushed against the invisible chains, the clearer my thoughts became. The Dursleys didn't deserve my loyalty. They didn't care for me, didn't want me. So why had I stayed? Why had I never thought of leaving?

One night, the compulsion shattered entirely. It was sudden, like a dam bursting, and I was left gasping in my cupboard, my heart pounding and my mind spinning. The full weight of the last year crashed down on me.

They did this to me.

The compulsion had buried the truth, twisting my thoughts and erasing my will. Every memory of freedom, every spark of resistance, had been smothered beneath its weight. They had used magic to keep me here, to break me down and trap me in this miserable house.

As the horror of it sank in, another realization clawed its way to the surface, dragging itself out of the recesses of my mind like a shadow I couldn't ignore. This wasn't the first time.

I've been through this before.

The memory hit like a punch to the gut. I saw flashes—my bare feet hitting the pavement as I ran through the night, the rattle of coins as I bought a bus ticket, the joy of sitting in the seat, the town fading into the distance.

Then, nothing. A blank void.

I'd escaped. I'd been free. And they'd taken it from me. They'd dragged me back, rewritten my thoughts, and made me forget. My hands trembled as I clutched at the blanket in the cupboard, bile rising in my throat.

They had stolen my freedom twice.

A year. A full year of suffering under the Dursleys, trapped in a cycle of misery I hadn't even realized was wrong. It had taken me months to notice the compulsion this time, weeks more to break free. If they caught me again, would I even realize it? Or would I spend the rest of my life as their prisoner, convinced I had no choice but to stay?

Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the cupboard ceiling. My scar throbbed faintly, a reminder of what had been taken from me and the power I lacked to stop it. My ribs ached, my body bruised and broken, but nothing compared to the weight in my chest.

But as despair threatened to swallow me whole, a flicker of defiance ignited. They had taken my freedom before. They had stolen my thoughts and erased my will. But I knew the truth now, and I would fight.

They wouldn't win. Not again.