As a child, Harry was fascinated by umbrellas. It seemed to his five year old mind that they must have magical properties – surely, if they stopped you from getting wet in the rain, they could stop you crying. Harry needed an umbrella.

Harry’s uncle hated crying. It was weak. So when Harry wanted to cry, he thought of umbrellas instead, falling in dark shades of black and grey across the white slate of his mind’s eye.

His uncle didn’t like imagination, but Harry was sure that imagining umbrellas was OK. Umbrellas were normal, even if they seemed to be magical. Umbrellas were an ordinary thing for boys to think about. But he didn’t tell anyone about the umbrellas – umbrellas were not something that needed to be discussed. They were something that you kept in the closet, and took out only when you needed them.

When Harry was six, his aunt taught him how to make origami umbrellas. She wanted them to serve with drinks at parties. Harry thought that was silly – drinks were already wet, why did they need umbrellas? They weren’t going to get any wetter without them.

But he made them carefully, running his fingernail along the folds to make them neat. He was determined to make them to the best of his ability. If he made them well enough, his aunt and uncle might decide that he was a good boy, and then he wouldn’t need umbrellas any more. If it wasn’t raining, you didn’t need an umbrella.

When Harry was eight, he started to walk to school on his own. Dudley didn’t want to share the car with him. His aunt didn’t want the neighbours wondering why he walked to school in the rain, so Harry got an umbrella.

It was cheap and black and boring – but it was new, and it was his. Harry knew that now that he had an umbrella, things would get better soon. That was what umbrellas were for – making things better. Rain was better with an umbrella, drinks were better with an umbrella – surely a boy would be better with an umbrella too.

At night, he held his umbrella. There was nothing wrong with that, Harry was sure. Even if umbrellas belonged in a closet, well, he was in one. Why shouldn’t he hold the umbrella?

When Harry was nine, his cousin sat on his umbrella and broke it. Harry was heart-broken, but he knew better than to make a fuss. You didn’t cry over umbrellas – they were there to stop you getting wet, and that would spoil their purpose.

He didn’t get a new umbrella. Instead, his aunt found an old one for him in the linen cupboard. It was battered, powder-blue, and had a handle shaped like a duck head. Harry hated it. Umbrellas existed to stop you getting wet, not to look decorative. The blue umbrella was as much an umbrella as the paper ones his aunt served in drinks.

He still made the paper umbrellas though. He’d make them in the dark, when he was locked in his cupboard for doing something wrong, and bite back his tears. If he got tears on the paper, the umbrellas were useless, and he’d have to throw them out. Even a paper umbrella shouldn’t let you get wet, shouldn’t let you cry.

When Harry found out he actually had money, the first thing he brought was an umbrella. It plain, black and serviceable; and the shop assistant looked amazed that the boy-who-lived could want something so mundane. But umbrellas were anything but mundane. They were just misunderstood, like him.

When Harry went to Hogwarts, he still made umbrellas, but he stopped giving them to his aunt. The only way he could get them to her was by owl, and he knew if he did that, she’d only throw them out. He considered saving them and bringing them home in the summer, but the paper he was using was parchment; and his aunt would think it tainted.

Instead, he took them down to the lake, and dropped them in, watching them float away. He always made sure to walk away before they sank, because then they’d be leaking, and umbrellas were no use if they leaked.

When the war began in earnest, Harry still made umbrellas. He placed them over the hearts of the injured, to stop them bleeding; because blood was wet, and that was what umbrellas were for. If an umbrella couldn’t do anything for them, nothing could.

Sometimes, he’d come by them again, and the umbrellas would still be pristine and white. Those were the ones he’d take to the healers; they were the ones who still had a chance.

Other times, the umbrellas would be bloodstained, or trampled and muddy. He left those for someone else to help – he knew there was no hope for them. If even an umbrella didn’t work, no amount of magic would bring them back.

When the war was over, Harry no longer needed umbrellas. Draco Malfoy was better than any umbrella – he knew a good water-repelling charm, and never minded if Harry cried. Umbrellas were all very nice, but being able to walk in the rain and laugh was much better.