It was agony and it drove Harry to his knees while he gasped and his mouth filled with his own blood.
"You showed fear. It made you weak."
Harry closed his eyes and his mind was assaulted with memories… every moment rushing back, reminding him of his entire story.
"I saw love," Harry whispered when everything became a grey blur and his body swayed. "And it made me strong."
*****
Many years before that…
****
There was never anything good at Number Four Privet Drive.
For as long as he could remember, Harry Potter knew that there wasn't anything good happening at the house he grew up in.
Uncle Vernon wasn't a good person - he cursed and he said mean things about people even after smiling in their faces. Aunt Petunia didn't do anything good all day, even though she didn't have to go to work or school. Their son, Dudley Dursley, was the worst. Aunt Petunia called him a good boy every day, but Harry didn't think that made it true.
Harry didn't know why he wasn't good, why he couldn't be good. Were freaks and bad boys born that way? Did Harry's parents know that he was going to be bad and that was why they left him behind with his aunt and uncle?
Or did Harry turn bad because of his relatives and their house?
Harry asked his teacher 'bout that one time, what made some people bad and some people good? His teacher didn't make much sense when she told him that nobody was ever all good or all bad, that everyone had at least a little mix of both.
Which wasn't really an answer at all.
Not getting answers to his questions was pretty normal for Harry. Harry used to ask lots of questions to his aunt and uncle, but they never answered and it didn't take Harry long to learn silence.
Sometimes it was easier to be silent. If Dudley wanted to fight Harry, Harry got real quiet wherever he found to hide. If Aunt Petunia blamed Harry for dead grass or chipped dishes, Harry stayed quiet. Uncle Vernon didn't let Harry stay quiet very much, he would shake him until Harry answered whatever question he asked.
Sometimes being quiet was too hard, but Harry made a neat game to play when he wanted to talk but couldn't: Magic.
If Aunt Petunia yelled at Harry for chipping a plate or staining a glass, Harry could bite his tongue real hard and imagine using his magic to break all the dishes in the whole house. Harry was pretty sure he could do it, he practiced a lot and every night he got a little bit better.
Harry wouldn't have ever known about magic if it wasn't for Aunt Petunia's favorite, and ugliest, plates. It had been an accident, even though no one believed him, but it changed Harry's whole life.
"BOY!"
Harry had a step-stool he used to wash dishes and Uncle Vernon's booming voice made Harry's foot slip on it, knocking him down on his bottom. The plate Harry washed slipped in his soapy hands and it should have broken.
Except it didn't break. The plate hit the floor once and then harmlessly bounced over to land on Harry's lap.
Harry's mouth had fallen open and he started to smile until a huff reminded Harry he wasn't alone. Harry looked slowly from the plate to Uncle Vernon… from the plate to his really angry and red-faced uncle.
Uncle Vernon didn't care if Harry didn't do it on purpose, he didn't care if Harry didn't even know what he did. He still whipped him with a belt so hard it left a scar on Harry's hip.
Harry had other scars, but that one was his favorite. The little semi-circle from the buckle didn't remind Harry of Uncle Vernon, only of what Harry started working on that night.
The scar reminded Harry that he didn't have to be good, he could be special instead.
The longer Harry lay on his cot in the cupboard, nursing his injuries and soothing himself in the dark while his relatives went about their day, there was really only one reason why the plate didn't break.
It probably wasn't a plate that could never break, since Harry had never heard of those types of plates before. Harry didn't think plates could bounce either, so either the plate was special or Harry did something special.
Plates couldn't be special. Could Harry?
Harry decided that night that it was magic he must have used to save the plate. When it had been falling, Harry did wish that it wouldn't break, he knew he'd get in big trouble if it broke.
And his wish came true just like magic.
The very next time Harry got locked in his cupboard, he tried magic again.
Usually being stuck in his cupboard made Harry want to scream and cry and kick until he tore down all the walls in the house. Aunt Petunia knew Harry wasn't allowed to leave and she still didn't let him have food since he didn't do any chores.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't.
Magic was the only thing that Harry could think about since dropping the plate. He didn't know much about magic except it was 'freak nonsense', but Harry just knew that magic could fix lots of things in his life.
Maybe he could even use it to sneak food from the pantry or water the flowers when it was real hot outside.
Harry's old teacher told his class that 'practice made perfect' when he made them write their names fifty times each. Harry's name looked neat when he wrote it, so practice seemed like a good idea.
There weren't any plates in the cupboard, but there were papers that Harry drew on sometimes. One of them he stuck above his bed, one with his name on it, and Harry filled it right in half. Harry put the pieces on his cot and closed his eyes, thinking really hard about what he wanted.
Fix this paper.
Nothing felt different and Harry opened his eyes real slow. When he saw the paper was still in two pieces, his stomach twisted up hard.
Harry tried again, except that time he closed his eyes and held his hands over the paper pieces.
"Fix this paper, please," Harry whispered quietly. "I want to fix this paper."
One eye peeked open - nothing.
Harry's stomach still felt sick, then his face got hot with annoyance too.
How come it wasn't working? Tape could fix it, why couldn't magic?
Harry tried again and again and again. When nothing happened after the fifth try, Harry slapped the floor and bit his lip to keep from screaming.
It wasn't fair! Harry never got new clothes or toys, he didn't get to eat as much as Dudley did, he never got to watch telly. Harry's parents dropped him off, they left him, and Harry never asked for them to pick him back up.
All Harry wanted was one stupid thing that could be just for him, one stupid thing that would mean that Harry wasn't just a bad boy with a bad family.
It wasn't fair.
Harry closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
What was different from the plate?
Harry tried to remember everything that happened - he had been washing the plate, scrubbing the beans off the edges… Uncle Vernon yelled at him, Harry's foot slipped on the step-stool and he fell.
It didn't really hurt, so Harry didn't think he needed to pinch himself or anything to do magic. He didn't need Uncle Vernon to yell at him either, 'cause Harry got yelled at all the time and only made magic happen once.
It did scare him, getting yelled at. Maybe that was what saved the plate? Harry being scared?
Oh no! I'm really scared right now!!
Nothing.
Harry couldn't feel scared, not when his face was hot and he felt like kicking and kicking and kicking.
I am scared, Harry thought over and over in his head. The paper still didn't move, not even a little bitty bit.
"Stupid, broken paper."
Harry snatched the papers in his hands and balled them up, smashed them against each other, then threw them at the wall. It didn't make his stomach stop hurting like he hoped so he threw them again and again and again.
"Stupid - stupid - broken - paper!" Harry never wanted to scream so bad in his whole life. Just when Harry grabbed both of the balls to shred in little pieces, something happened.
There was something warm in Harry's chest. It felt like a cup of tea got spilled as it drained down Harry's arms, made his hands feel tingly and soft. Harry couldn't remember ever feeling that way before… happy, nice…
All of the heat filled Harry's hands and he could hear his heart pounding really really loudly as he slowly opened his fists…
The paper Harry ripped wasn't two balls anymore, it was one piece of paper folded up neatly. There wasn't even a single wrinkle.
It worked. It actually worked.
Magic was real. It was real and Harry could use it.
Harry didn't have to be good, Harry could be special.