Harry Potter and why is life so difficult?

Morning came like a hammer to my skull. My body was heavy, drenched in sweat, and every joint ached as though I'd run for miles. My head throbbed, and even the faintest light leaking into the cupboard felt like knives stabbing into my eyes. I couldn't move, let alone think clearly.

The sharp sound of knuckles rapping against the cupboard door pierced my haze. "Get up, freak!" Petunia's voice rang out, shrill and impatient. "Breakfast isn't going to make itself!"

I tried to respond, to muster the strength to drag myself upright, but my body refused to cooperate. All I could do was groan faintly, my voice hoarse and pitiful.

The door rattled as Petunia yanked it open. Her face was pinched with irritation as she peered inside. "What are you—" She froze mid-sentence, her lips curling into a sneer as she stepped back. "What's wrong with you?"

"I… can't…" I managed to croak, my throat dry and raw. My words barely made it out.

Petunia looked at me with a mix of disgust and annoyance, her sharp eyes scanning the sweat-soaked blanket and my pallid face. "Ugh, you're burning up," she muttered, more to herself than to me. "Useless."

Her thin lips pressed into a hard line, and she leaned away as though proximity alone might infect her. "Of course the freak has to get sick now," she hissed. "You're lucky Vernon's too busy to notice today, or he'd drag you out of there sick or not."

I barely registered her words. My head lolled to the side, exhaustion pulling me down like an anchor.

Petunia pulled the cupboard door shut with a sharp snap. "Stay in there and don't make a sound. If you get Dudley sick, you'll wish you'd never been born."

Out in the kitchen, I could hear her grumbling as she prepared breakfast, the smell of frying bacon wafting through the house.

"Where's the boy?" Vernon's booming voice demanded.

"He's sick," Petunia said curtly, her tone tinged with irritation. "I don't want Dudley catching whatever disgusting illness he's managed to get. Let him rot in that cupboard for all I care."

"Good riddance," Vernon muttered, the scrape of his chair loud against the floor.

"Mummy, can I see?" Dudley's voice piped up, curious.

"No, Dudders," Petunia said sharply. "You stay far away from him. Do you want to end up like that freak? Sick and filthy? I don't think so."

The sounds of breakfast carried on without me—the clatter of plates, Vernon's loud chewing, Dudley's whining for more food. Occasionally, I heard Petunia muttering complaints about me, blaming my illness on laziness or sheer spite.

Inside the cupboard, I barely noticed. My mind was a foggy mess, and my body felt detached, as though I were floating somewhere far away. My fever burned high, every beat of my heart echoing in my ears.

For once, they left me alone. But the reprieve brought no comfort—only a hollow ache in my chest as I lay there, too weak to even hope for relief.

When I woke, the house was cloaked in silence, the heavy stillness of the dead of night. My body ached all over, and my throat was dry as sandpaper. Groaning softly, I shifted, the dim light from the hallway seeping under the cupboard door illuminating a faint outline.

A glass of water and a cold, crumbling piece of bread sat on the floor just inside the cupboard. I blinked at it in disbelief. For a moment, I wondered if I was hallucinating. But no, it was real.

Wow. Petunia is a true figure of generosity, I thought bitterly. A saint, really. Nobel Peace Prize material.

Still, my stomach was a gnawing pit of emptiness, and my throat screamed for relief. Begrudgingly, I took the bread, chewing it slowly despite its dryness. It tasted like cardboard, but I forced it down. The water was lukewarm and slightly metallic, but it was the sweetest thing I'd had in days.

As I ate, the events of the previous night replayed in my mind. My failed attempt to get rid of Vernon. The knife stopped by that invisible barrier. The crushing exhaustion that followed.

What went wrong? I wondered, my hands shaking slightly as I set the glass down. What was that barrier? And why did it drain me so completely?

The logical conclusion hit me like a ton of bricks. The wizards have magic inside the house too. That had to be it. Some kind of spell protecting Vernon, keeping him safe from harm. Maybe even keeping him safe from me specifically.

But then another thought wormed its way into my mind, sending a chill down my spine. Why did it feel like I ran a marathon after hitting the barrier? It wasn't just the physical effort of the attempt. Something else had sapped my energy, something far more insidious.

Is that barrier linked to me? The question lingered, unspoken but undeniable. It made an uncomfortable kind of sense. Maybe the barrier wasn't just protecting Vernon—it might have been feeding off of me somehow, drawing strength directly from me.

No, I thought quickly, shaking my head. That can't be right.

After all, Vernon had no trouble hitting me. His fists, his belt, whatever he could grab—it all made contact just fine. There was no barrier protecting me.

But that only made the situation more confusing. If the magic could work against me, what did that mean?

I leaned back against the cupboard wall, the remnants of the bread sitting like a rock in my stomach. The water had done little to soothe the parched ache in my throat. I was too exhausted to make sense of it all, but one thing was clear:

I have to face reality. The wizards are more powerful than I thought. They don't just control the outside world—they've infested this house too. Their magic isn't limited to finding me or compelling me to stay. It's everywhere. It's in everything.

And most troubling of all, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever this magic was, it was tied to me in ways I didn't yet understand.

Lying in the suffocating darkness of the cupboard, I started to think—really think—about my situation. The Durleys. Who were they to me? I knew my parents were dead. That much was clear.

But then, how do I fit into this family?

I didn't think Vernon and I were related. We had no similarities—he was loud, brutish, and entirely too fond of his own voice. I was small, quiet, and despised the sound of his. That left Petunia.

She must be my aunt, I reasoned. She was old enough to fit the role, and her sharp, pinched features reminded me of someone, though I couldn't place who. If she was my aunt, that meant she was my mother's sister. My mother who had magic.

But that raised another question: Does Petunia have magic?

I mulled it over, the thought twisting uncomfortably in my mind. If Petunia were magical, wouldn't I have seen her do something magical by now? It didn't add up. Why would a magical person rely on a six-year-old to cook and clean? Why scream and shout when a flick of her wand could accomplish the same thing?

No, Petunia didn't seem magical. She was ordinary—terribly ordinary, if her sharp tongue and obsession with appearances were anything to go by.

And Dudley? The very thought made me scoff, even in my weakened state. Dudley with magic? Please. The world would've imploded by now.

That left only me.

I'm the only one in this house with magic. But… I can't even use it.

I clenched my fists at the thought, frustration bubbling in my chest. If I had magic, why couldn't I defend myself? Why couldn't I escape? And if I couldn't use it, where had that barrier come from?

It had been there, stopping me from doing what needed to be done. The red flash, the crushing exhaustion—it wasn't a fluke. It had been magic, pure and simple. But not mine.

Another question clawed its way to the surface: Why am I here at all?

If the wizards were powerful enough to set magical barriers and track me down when I escaped, why insist on leaving me with the Dursleys? It wasn't logical.

They don't even like me. Scratch that—they hate me. So why keep me here?

If the goal was to protect me, they were doing a terrible job of it. The bruises, the scars, the hunger—all of it painted a picture of neglect.

The pieces didn't fit, and that unsettled me more than anything. I was the only magical person in the house, yet the magic didn't seem to be mine. The wizards insisted on me staying, but I didn't know why.

Is this some kind of twisted punishment? Or… something else entirely?

A cold, creeping thought slithered into my mind: What if the Dursleys aren't the ones who hate me most? What if it's the wizards who put me here in the first place?

I shivered despite the heat of my fever. I didn't have answers yet, but one thing was clear: this house was a cage, and I was the only one who could figure out how to escape it.

Over the following week, a gnawing question kept me up at night: Is Dudley protected by the barrier too?

If he was, then the magic wasn't just targeting Vernon—it was on the entire Dursley family. And if that was true, then it raised another, far more infuriating question: Why don't I have the same protection?

I needed to know for sure.

I mulled over how to test it. It had to be something subtle, something that wouldn't get traced back to me if it worked. If it didn't? Well, Dudley wouldn't exactly be winning any genius awards.

While cleaning one of the upstairs closets, I stumbled across an old dartboard set, complete with a handful of metal-tipped darts. My lips twitched into a small, bitter smile. Perfect.

The opportunity came later that week, while Petunia and Vernon were out shopping. Dudley was sprawled on the couch, shoveling crisps into his mouth and watching cartoons. His back was to me, and his laughter boomed through the living room like a foghorn.

I stood in the hallway, dart in hand, heart pounding as I peered around the corner. Just one throw. Enough to see if he's protected. It doesn't even have to hit him—just get close.

Taking a deep breath, I took aim. My hands were shaking, but I forced myself to steady them.

The dart flew through the air, whistling softly. It was on target, just about to pierce the soft, fleshy part of Dudley's back—

And then, like with Vernon, there was a flash. The dart swerved in midair, as if yanked by an invisible string, and clattered harmlessly to the floor. Dudley didn't even flinch.

I stared at the fallen dart, a mix of awe and fury bubbling in my chest. He's protected too. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. The barrier isn't just for Vernon. It's on all of them. Petunia, Dudley, maybe even the house itself.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. But why not me?

That was the question that haunted me as I picked up the dart and stashed it back in the closet. The Dursleys had magic shielding them from harm—magic so strong it could deflect a dart without them even noticing.

Where's my protection?

I replayed every interaction in my mind, every slap, every kick, every cruel word. The bruises on my body, the scars that would never fully fade. The magic kept the Dursleys safe, but when Vernon raised his fist to me, there was no red flash. No barrier. No one protecting me.

Why am I the only one left out?

The bitterness swelled inside me, sharp and jagged. The wizards who left me here had gone to great lengths to protect the Dursleys. But me?

I was left to fend for myself.

The next two months crawled by like a nightmare on repeat. Every day was the same grind: bruises, hunger, and humiliation. I'd exhausted every option. Running away was a fool's errand. Fighting back? Impossible. Even trying to take out Vernon had ended in failure, leaving me too weak to stand for days.

And so, the light of hope dimmed, flickering like a candle caught in the wind.

It was then that a darker thought took hold. If I can't leave, if I can't fight back, what's left?

The answer crept into my mind, cold and cruel. Maybe the only person I can take out is myself.

I'd reincarnated once already. Maybe it would happen again, and next time I'd get a better deal. And if not? Well, death couldn't be worse than this. Death wouldn't sneer at me, starve me, or leave me feeling like less than nothing.

It was a Wednesday evening when the atmosphere in the house shifted. I'd been in the cupboard, too tired to sleep but too weak to do anything else, when the shouting started.

"YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A MAN!" Petunia shrieked, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

"OH, SHUT YOUR TRAP!" Vernon bellowed back, his words slurring. He was drunk again.

I listened, piecing together what I could. Something about a secretary. A one-night stand.

Petunia was livid, angrier than I'd ever seen her. Plates clattered, and I heard something shatter. Vernon roared back, but his words lacked their usual venom. He sounded defensive.

Then there was a loud crash, followed by a howl of pain.

Curiosity got the better of me. I cracked open the cupboard door and peeked out. What I saw left me speechless.

Vernon was on the kitchen floor, clutching his foot, which was now pinned to the tiles by a knife. Blood pooled beneath him, and he howled like a wounded animal. Petunia stood frozen, her face pale.

"V-Vernon?" she muttered, her voice trembling.

My heart raced as I took in the scene. My first thought was that Vernon had hit his head—there was a nasty bruise forming on his temple. But then there was a knife that held my attention.

How did that even happen?

I looked up and saw the cabinet above. The knife had been resting on top of it, just out of reach. I'd seen it there earlier while doing chores. Vernon's headbutt had been enough to knock it loose.

But the real shock wasn't the knife. It was the lack of the barrier.

Why didn't the barrier protect him?

This was Vernon. Vernon, who never got so much as a scratch, even when he stumbled drunkenly around the house. The same Vernon who could hit me without a flicker of magical interference.

I watched as Petunia grabbed a dishcloth and tried to stop the bleeding, her hands trembling. Vernon screamed at her, calling her useless, but she ignored him.

And then it hit me. Petunia.

She was mad. No, more than mad—she was furious. For once, she wasn't the dutiful, subservient wife. Her anger radiated off her like a storm, and Vernon was the eye of it.

Is that it? Is the barrier tied to her?

It didn't make sense at first. Petunia had always seemed like the least magical person in existence. But what if the barrier wasn't something she consciously controlled?

What if it's subconscious?

Her feelings for Vernon had changed, at least for now. Was that enough to weaken the magic protecting him?

I retreated into my cupboard, my mind racing.

If the barrier was tied to Petunia's emotions, then maybe it wasn't as invincible as I'd thought. Maybe there was a way to exploit it.

For the first time in months, I felt a spark of something I hadn't dared to entertain: hope.