Harry struggled to pull the roast out of the oven, arms shaking as he stood on his tiptoes to place the pan onto the counter. His aunt swooped in behind him. “Is it done?” she squawked as she peered over him.
“I believe so, Aunt Petunia.”
“Good. Vernon should be arriving with Aunt Marge soon.” She glanced out the window, over the garden covered in white. “Hers was probably the last train of the day,” she said absentmindedly before facing Harry once more. “Go make sure you’ve laid the table properly.”
He did as he was told, looking over the four place settings. He counted the forks, made sure the napkins were centered on each plate, and straightened a placemat so it lined up exactly with the edge of the table. He listened as his cousin, Dudley, gorged himself on sweets as he watched a Christmas film on the telly in the next room.
“Stop playing with the good silverware!” his aunt exclaimed. Harry hastily placed the spoon he was absently polishing back onto the table.
“Sorry, Aunt Petunia.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Never mind that. It’s time for you to go.”
Harry’s shoulders slumped. Although he was never allowed to eat at the table while Aunt Marge was in town, he was hoping to get something to eat before he was locked into his cupboard for the evening. Still, he dutifully made his way to the hallway.
“Where do you think you’re going?” his aunt asked.
“To my cupboard?”
His aunt shook his head. “There will be no cupboard tonight. Due to the unfortunate incident with Ripper last time Aunt Marge visited, your uncle and I figured it would be best if you didn’t stay in the house. We want a nice holiday, and we wouldn’t have one with you antagonizing the dog!”
Harry stared at his aunt in shock. Ripper chased him up a tree for no reason last time he was here. Aunt Marge and Uncle Vernon sure had a laugh about that, praising the dog for how agile he was against a child. “But it’s snowing outside, Aunt Petunia.”
“You have a coat and gloves. Wear them,” she insisted. She went towards the hall closet and pulled out Dudley’s old winter coat, now Harry’s. It was yellow and had a mysterious red stain on the front. She checked the pocket and the holey gloves were still there. She then rummaged amongst the shoes until she found Dudley’s boots, tossing them behind her. “You can wear these too, but you better not ruin them.”
Harry was shocked. These were actual boots meant for snow, instead of the usual faded green wellies he wore during rain or snow. He was taken out of his stupor when his aunt shrieked, “What are you waiting for? Vernon and Marge will be here any minute.”
He hastily threw on his coat, which was at least two sizes too large for him, along with the boots. As he put his gloves on, his aunt returned with two things in her hands. The first was food wrapped in foil, still warm. The other was a handheld white box with black numbers counting down. A timer. “You may come back once the timer goes off,” his aunt helpfully replied to his unasked question. The timer currently read 5:56.
Armed with a bit of food, a curfew of sorts, and almost being adequately dressed for the weather, Harry exited 4 Privet Drive. His aunt quickly closed the door behind him, eager to keep the wind and snow out of the house. His relief of not being locked in his cupboard, the tantalizing smells from the dinner he prepared wafting in, soon wore off. Not only was his coat too big, but so were his boots. His feet moved around in them, making it difficult to find sure footing in the snow, which was already covering his ankles. And the wind wormed its way into his heart via the sleeves and back of his coat. Harry wished his aunt let him change into something else before sending him outside. He would take Dudley’s stretched out sweatpants over his threadbare jeans, or at least a long-sleeved shirt.
He walked towards the playground found farther in their development. He didn’t want to be anywhere near Privet Drive when Uncle Vernon arrived with his sister and dog in tow. While it definitely wasn’t swinging weather, there was a picnic table he could sit at and enjoy the small Christmas meal Aunt Petunia packed for him. He trudged along. Harry wished he had a hat, or that he was given one of Dudley’s. The wind battered against his face, flakes stinging against his cheeks, and he couldn’t get the hood to stay up unless he physically held onto it himself. He wasn’t about to expose his fingers to the cold just yet. He wanted to keep them as warm as possible before it was time to eat.
Eventually, he could make out the various playground equipment, grey shadows that slowly emerged against the heavy snow. On a good day, the park was only a 10 minute walk from Privet Drive; Harry estimated that it took him double that amount of time to just get to where he currently stood. He was still a few blocks away. His stomach growled, spurring him on.
Once he arrived at the park, he made sure to find the side of the picnic table so the wind blew against his back. He could finally put his hood up and have it stay up. His ears, which had begun to hurt in the cold, thanked him. Harry brushed off a spot at the end for him to sit and enjoy his meal. He removed the foiled dinner from his pocket and carefully opened it up. His aunt had packed him one small potato, two pieces of carrots, and a spoonful of peas. All of it was covered in the barest hint of gravy.
Harry wished that Aunt Petunia would’ve had the foresight to pack some sort of utensil with the food. While he could eat the potato and carrots easily enough with his hands, the peas were another story. He immediately felt guilty thinking such a thing, seeing as she sent him off with both food and proper attire for the weather. It was more than a freak like him deserved. After removing his holey gloves, he tucked into his meal. It grew colder by the minute, but Harry couldn’t help but think it was the best Christmas dinner he ever had. Then again, he didn’t have much to go by. He had never been allowed to partake in it before.
When he finished eating, he methodically folded the foil into smaller and smaller squares until it was too thick for him to try any more. He then quickly wiped his hands off in the snow, unwilling to allow his gloves to smell like cooked vegetables. After drying his hands off in his coat pockets, he put his gloves back on. Harry was thirsty, so he made a snowball and ate it as he exited the park. He had to eat it fast; it melted into his gloves and made his hands cold and wet. When he was half done with it, it tossed it into the snow. It was too cold, he was sure his tongue was freezer-burned.
He pulled out the timer. 4:44. Maybe he should hang out in the park for a bit longer. Harry always loved the swings, the rare times he was allowed to be on them without Dudley or his gang chasing him off them or pelting rocks at him. It reminded him of flying, and the infrequent dream he’s had of a motorbike shooting across the sky. He pondered for a minute on the sidewalk before deciding it was too windy. His hood would definitely come down if he were to swing. At least now his back was towards the wind; his hood firmly stayed over his head. Besides, the sun would be setting soon. There were no lights in the park, supposedly to deter the teens from hanging out after dark. If he stayed on the streets, however, he could at least follow the streetlamps.
As Harry walked back towards Privet Drive, he wondered how he would spend the next few hours. He supposed he could see if Mrs. Figg was home. Or at least wish her a Happy Christmas. Despite listening to all the gossip about the neighbors from Aunt Petunia and her friends, Harry didn’t really know anybody. He could identify some of his classmates' parents by who dropped them off at school each day, and he knew where they lived, but he didn’t really know or speak to anyone else in the neighborhood, save Mrs. Figg. And she always seemed available and around. For all the times that she had babysat Harry while the rest of his family went on trips and restaurants, she never talked about any family she may have, only her cats, of which she had many. Harry knew that one of the girls in his class, Mandy, was allergic to cats. He was pretty sure if she took even one step into Mrs. Figg’s house, she would die. That’s how many cats Mrs. Figg had.
Almost as soon as Harry had that idea, he dismissed it. Just because Mrs. Figg never spoke about her family, it didn't mean she didn’t have one. Harry wasn’t in any of the photos his aunt hung up around the house, yet he still existed. Besides, even if she was home, it would be incredibly rude to show up with nothing. Harry knew this from his aunt and her garden club friends complaining about ungrateful guests. Unless Harry wanted to offer his holey gloves or the misshapen piece of foil in his pocket to Mrs. Figg as a gift, he had nothing.
Harry decided to play a game, retracing his exact steps from the playground. The farther he got, the more filled in his previous footprints became. He followed his path, hopping and skidding in his boots. While he was grateful for the warm, dry boots, he wished he could’ve put on another pair of socks. He had gotten used to the shoes easy enough, but his feet had too much movement. If he were allowed to wear a second pair, they would help him wear them better. It would also prevent him from getting the blister he could feel forming on his left heel.
It was still snowing as the sun set. The backdrop became greyer and greyer, and the street lamps turned on when he was about halfway back to the Dursleys. When the golden halos first turned on, Harry was surprised. He hadn’t realized it was that late in the day already.
Harry stopped hopping in the snow when he was half a block away from 4 Privet Drive. He could see Uncle Vernon’s car in the driveway, covered in a layer of snow. He wanted to hide in the back garden, if only to get out of the wind and snow. He knew that wasn’t a good idea though. If he lingered long enough for them to notice him, he was sure Aunt Marge would set Ripper on him. He didn’t wish to climb a tree today. He turned around and headed back towards the park.
By now, it was noticeably twilight. People began to turn on their Christmas lights. There was something magical about seeing the lights with snow. It softened the glow somehow, and made the houses appear cozy despite the chill. Harry decided on his way back that he would pick which houses he thought had the best lights. He only ever saw the ones on the Dursley’s neighbor’s houses, so he was in for a treat. One house had lights that looked like icicles. Another had a Frosty and a Rudolph that moved. Both of those movies were banned in the house due to magic, but Harry had heard the songs at school. Yet another had multicolored lights, a Santa Claus, and wrapped their bushes in the front with lights too. Harry thought it was fabulous, and much better than the boring string of white lights Uncle Vernon placed on the roof earlier in the month.
It was now dark enough that when Harry wasn’t in a halo of light from the street lamps, it was difficult to see things. The wind began to let up, but the snow continued. He remembered overhearing the weather report for today mention that they were in an Amber Warning today. That would explain why his aunt was so frazzled earlier; there was a lot of snow on the ground.
As he walked, he couldn’t help but wonder what Christmas would be like if his parents were alive. He learned pretty early on to not ask any questions about his parents. His aunt was very tight-lipped about them, and refused to answer any questions about them. Any information he found out about them typically came from Aunt Marge late at night when they thought he was asleep in his cupboard. That’s how he learned they died in a drink-driving accident when he was a baby. It’s also how he found out his mum was Aunt Petunia’s sister.
Harry was curious if his dad strung a bunch of lights up, and if so, what colors. And did his mum ever bake cookies, like so many of his classmates do? He pulled out the timer. 3:16 blinked back at him. He found himself pulling away from the street and towards a house that absolutely shined in the night. There were cars all in the driveway and up the street, and Harry carefully crept along the side of the house until he was next to a shrub. Cautiously, he peered over the top of it, pulling down the hood of his coat to make himself less conspicuous.
He hungrily drank in the scene before him. The room was packed with people. Kids littered the floor, couples were squished onto the furniture and others leaned up against the walls. Everyone was opening up presents, showing off what they got to everyone else. A teen waded through discarded red, green, and gold wrapping paper, handing gifts off to others. Everyone appeared joyous.
He ducked back down again when he noticed a little girl make eye contact with him. Was that what Christmas was supposed to be like? Everyone having fun and enjoying each other’s company? Harry couldn’t help but wonder what his own parents did on Christmas. Were they like this family, or were they too drunk to take care of him, to buy him anything? Maybe things were actually better at the Dursleys. He wasn’t ignored, per say; he just wasn’t allowed to participate in the festivities. He still got a present every year. So what if all he got was a thimble full of lint compared to the 29 presents his aunt and uncle bought Dudley? It was still better than nothing.
Harry felt hot tears drip down his cheeks, and he hurriedly wiped them away. There was no reason to cry. He still celebrated Christmas. His aunt was thoughtful enough to let him borrow Dudley’s boots, for heaven’s sake. Plus, he always had his cupboard, which was more than some kids could ever dream of. He should know better than comparing himself to others. Freaks like him were supposed to be grateful for what they were given.
He stood up from his hiding spot and wiped the snow off of his jeans before returning to the sidewalk. He ambled down another block towards Privet Drive. He hoped by the time he returned to the house, the Dursleys would be done eating and instead gathered around the tree. If that were the case, and Ripper remained indoors, then Harry could sneak into the back garden and hang out in the shed. He shivered. He couldn’t feel his legs and his arms were wet from all the snow that melted into his coat.
He approached his house from the neighbors, stalking up to the front window. Lowering his hood once again, he slowly rose until he could see inside. He saw Dudley ripping open a present he snatched from his aunt’s hands, Vernon and Aunt Marge fondly smiling at him. And Ripper was next to her on the couch, asleep with drool dripping from his mouth. Perfect.
Harry crept along the side of the house before reaching the fence. Climbing it was harder while wearing clunky boots and with half frozen hands, but he landed inside the yard a few minutes later. A glance towards the conservatory told him that everyone was still around the tree. He hyped himself up, counting to five before making a mad dash across the garden to the shed. One there, he yanked up the door before closing it behind him.
While he caught his breath, inhaling the dirt-infused air, he realized a flaw in his plan. There was no light inside the shed. The dark itself didn’t bother him; the lightbulb in his cupboard was hardly ever replaced. If he waited a few minutes, his eyes would adjust and let him see some things. How was he supposed to read the timer if he couldn’t even see it?
He sat against the door, shivering, as his eyes adjusted. He thought it would be warmer in here, but it couldn’t be more than a few degrees warmer compared to outside. At least with the four walls surrounding him, the wind could no longer get to him. Once his thought enough time had passed, he searched for one of the tarps he knew was there. He felt along the shelves until he found one. He unfolded it and wrapped it around himself like a blanket before settling back against the door.
Despite his best efforts, Harry found himself growing tired. He pulled the timer out of his coat pocket so he would hear its beeping when it went off. His final thought before drifting off was how much more space he had in here compared to his cupboard.