Hogwarts: Echoes of Mischief

The cupboard under the stairs wasn't just a place—it was a world, small and suffocating, filled with stale air and the faint smell of damp. The mattress was thin, its springs poking my back no matter how carefully I lay down. The single flickering bulb overhead cast uneven shadows, highlighting spiderwebs in the corners and the scuff marks on the wooden door. Sometimes, I'd run my fingers over those marks, imagining they were maps leading somewhere far away—anywhere but here.

When the Dursleys weren't yelling, banging doors, or stomping around, the silence would settle, heavy and almost unbearable. In that silence, my mind wandered. Did other boys have birthday parties? Did they laugh over meals they liked instead of eating leftovers in the dark? Did their families smile at them, call them by their names like they mattered?

I didn't dare ask. I knew what Aunt Petunia would say, her lips curling into that thin, sharp line: "Ungrateful boy. You're lucky we keep you at all." Uncle Vernon wouldn't even bother with words—his face would flush purple as he yelled until his voice cracked.

But even when I knew better, I couldn't stop wondering. My chest ached for things I couldn't name. Someone to open the cupboard door and smile—not to bark an order or shove me off to clean, but to say, "There you are, Harry. We missed you." Someone who'd ruffle my hair, sit me down for dinner, and look at me without that cold, disgusted glare.

Then came the letter. Then Hagrid.

A giant man with hands big enough to crush me, yet his voice was soft, full of wonder, as he spoke my name like it meant something. "Harry, you're a wizard." The words changed everything, breaking the rules of the small, grim world I'd known. And suddenly, I wasn't a freak. I wasn't just the boy under the stairs.

But stepping into the wizarding world felt like stepping into someone else's story. From the moment I boarded the train to Hogwarts, it was all too much. Ron's easy jokes, Hermione's bright eagerness, even the trolley of sweets—it was like a dream I didn't quite believe I was allowed to have. And when people whispered my name, their eyes wide with awe, it felt... strange. Like they were talking about someone else.

Sitting in the Gryffindor common room now, I watched the firelight dance across the walls, casting golden reflections on the red-and-gold tapestry. Laughter echoed around me, warm and inviting. I was part of it—part of them. But was I really?

They called me The Boy Who Lived, like it meant something. But living? I didn't know if I'd truly lived. I'd survived, sure, but wasn't there supposed to be more to it? Courage? Brilliance? Something extraordinary?

The pedestal they'd placed me on felt unsteady, like it might collapse if I moved too quickly or breathed the wrong way.

I hugged my knees to my chest, staring into the flickering flames. What if they realized I wasn't special? That I wasn't clever like Hermione or brave like Ron? What if they saw the boy who'd spent his life cowering in a cupboard, who still sometimes felt like he belonged there?

I wanted to prove myself, but magic didn't come as easily as it did for the others. My wand still felt foreign in my hand, the spells stubborn on my tongue. Each small failure made my stomach twist with dread, as though any moment, they'd see the truth.

The fear of being alone again loomed larger than anything else. Even surrounded by my housemates—faces lit by firelight, laughter spilling from their lips—something cold clung to me, deep and unshakable. The idea that all of this—the warmth, the belonging, the smiles—wasn't mine to keep.

I rested my chin on my knees, my fingers idly tracing the soft fabric of my robes. The Gryffindor common room was so alive, so full of noise and comfort, and yet... I felt like a visitor.

Deep down, I couldn't help but wonder: what if they'd made a mistake? What if the real Harry Potter wasn't me at all?