In the evenings at Privet Drive, when he was routinely locked in his cupboard beneath the stairs, young Harry had not much more to do than to practice his reading until he fell asleep. Dudley did not receive books for him to inherit, so all he had were homework sheets, old baby books, and the instruction manual for Dudley’s computer he had jealously stolen one day. So that’s what he read–the pages on the floppy disc drive under the uncovered light bulb–while the characters on the Dursleys’ shows murmured beyond his door.
“... d-desc..ribes the.. dee, diya, agganos… “ He sounded it aloud, tracing the line of tiny text with his finger.
Diagnostics.
“Diagno, stics, av, vailable, for the… Ugh, nevermind,” Young Harry grumbled, and dropped the manual in the corner of his cupboard. He pulled the string on his light, clicking it off, and took up his lumpy stuffed bear.
It means to name a problem.
Young Harry muttered, muffled by the bear–the bear’s name had come to him spontaneously long ago, it’s name was Tom–he held against his mouth, “The problem’s name is Harry. Simple.”
A diagnosis.
It was not so much a voice as an instinct–like wiser, fully-threaded thoughts that landed in Harry’s mind. Sometimes Harry just knew things, and it was this instinct that delivered them.
It had been with him in his tiny cupboard as long as he could remember. He remembered it particularly on the day when Uncle Vernon dragged his crib from the cupboard and threw in a dingy mattress on the floor (a “big boy” bed) and threw the crying Harry by his arm onto it and snapped the door closed, when it hissed and spit like sizzling meat in his head and Harry realized then he might not be as alone as he always felt.
Louder than the sound of the telly, Uncle Vernon climbed the stairs above Harry’s head. He was heavy and the wood above Harry’s head creaked under every step. Thump, thump, thump…
“No, Daddy, I want to watch.” Harry could hear Dudley whining. He was certainly half-asleep, being carried by his father to his room.
“More? Little tyke,” Uncle Vernon chuckled fondly. Thump, thump…
No. They are the problem.
A corner of Harry’s mind seemed to rattle. It felt trapped, like there was nothing it could do while in this house, in this cupboard.
“Diagona, sticks,” Harry muttered sleepily against his bear’s head.
Diagnosis.
“Tom,” he said to his bear. “I don’t like… reading.”
I know.
“I’d rather… watch telly.”
Sleep.
“Goodnight, Tom.”
For a moment there was nothing. And then an idea came to him, fully formed:
When you wake, we will run.