The move
Vernon drove like a man possessed; his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. He shouted at anyone who crossed his path, unleashing a torrent of insults that seemed to bubble up from deep within. If someone ahead of him was driving slower than he liked, they were “idiots.” If someone overtook him, they were “reckless maniacs.” Motorcyclists became “lunatics,” and anyone with long hair? “Hippy faggot.” No one was spared from his venomous outbursts, whether they were walking down the street or simply minding their own business on the road.
Harry usually dreaded being stuck in the house with his uncle, but car rides were a strange relief. At least in the car, Uncle Vernon’s insults were aimed at strangers instead of him. Still, he couldn’t help but feel bad for the people who became targets of his uncle’s rage. Today, Harry sat quietly in the backseat, perched on a towel his Aunt Petunia had insisted on. She didn’t want him “dirtying” the car with his so-called freakishness. They had packed their Vauxhall Vectra estate wagon to the brim with everything they could fit, as if they were going away for months instead of a weekend.
Harry was squished against the side of the car, his small frame wedged uncomfortably in the narrow space left for him. Dudley, meanwhile, lounged in his oversized car seat, happily munching on a chocolate bar. He took up more than his fair share of room, his bulk pressing against the armrest. At six, Dudley was already twice as wide as most children his age, a fact that only seemed to make Aunt Petunia dote on him more. Harry didn’t mind, though. He was used to being overlooked. Today, like every day, he did his best to remain invisible.
It took them a couple of hours to arrive at their destination, a dreary, worn-down town just off the coast called Cokeworth. The town itself was as bleak as the overcast sky that hung low above it, casting everything in a muted grey light. Though it was close to Devon, a place known for its scenic beaches, Cokeworth was nothing like it. The coastline here felt lifeless, with beaches that seemed more like stretches of wet, cold sand than places of relaxation. The waves, dark and sluggish, lapped lazily at the shore as if even the sea was too tired to try.
They pulled up to a house that sat about five minutes from the beach and another five from the town centre. Aunt Petunia wasted no time, her lips tight with disapproval as she stepped out of the car. She shot Harry a venomous glare before unleashing her shrill, piercing voice. "Get out and start taking the luggage in, boy!" she screeched, her eyes narrowing on the towel he had been sitting on as if it had personally offended her. “And don’t think I won’t be needing to do laundry on the first day because of you!”
Harry’s shoulders sagged at her words. He knew what her complaints really meant; he would be the one doing the laundry. Just like he was the one who did the cooking, the cleaning, the gardening, and whatever else needed doing around the house. It was an unspoken rule that any chore could find, Aunt Petunia would dump on him.
For a fleeting moment, Harry had allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, this trip would be different. He had been so careful, staying out of trouble, avoiding anything remotely "freakish," and doing every chore that was thrown at him with the diligence only a malnourished, overworked six-year-old could muster. He had even dared to dream that they might give him a little break, a moment of peace. But clearly, they had other plans for him.
After Harry finished lugging the last of the bags inside, he overheard Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon grumbling in the living room. They were complaining about how the movers hadn’t shown up yet, and it finally clicked for Harry, they weren’t just visiting. They were moving here permanently. His heart sank as the realization settled in. A part of him had naively hoped this was just a short trip, a chance to get away. But in reality, it wasn’t a vacation they’d invited him on. That much was obvious; they never invited him anywhere. Why would they start now?
A few moments later, Uncle Vernon stormed into the room, his enormous figure making the floorboards creak and groan under his weight. Harry swore sometimes that the ground actually shook when his uncle stomped through the house. “Boy!” Vernon barked, “Move mine and Petunia’s luggage to the second floor. Big master bedroom, you can’t miss it.” His voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument.
Harry nodded quickly and began to drag the suitcases upstairs, his arms aching from the weight of them. Once he was done with that, Uncle Vernon appeared again, jabbing a thick finger in Harry’s direction. “All of Dudley’s stuff goes in the large bedroom on the first floor. And make sure to leave room in the attached room for his other things once the movers arrive.” Dudley’s “other things” likely meant the countless toys and games he owned, most of which would probably never even be touched from his 2nd bedroom.
Harry finished moving everything, but one question still nagged at him. Where would he sleep? The only room left was the small guest bedroom, but before he could even open his mouth to ask, Uncle Vernon answered him in his usual dismissive way. He grabbed Harry’s ratty school bag, which contained his few meagre belongings, and tossed it unceremoniously into the supply closet. “That’s where you’ll be sleeping,” he sneered before turning away. “Now get started on dinner.”
Any faint hope Harry had of having his own space vanished as he stared at the cramped closet, but at least it was taller than his old bedroom, the cupboard under the stairs. He quickly pushed the thought aside and hurried to the kitchen. At least he wouldn’t have to go out in the rain, they had stopped at the town centre earlier, so there was food in the house. Harry set to work preparing the meal: steak, mashed potatoes, and beans, the exact dinner Uncle Vernon had demanded.
The family sat down at the dining table; their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the overhead light. Aunt Petunia picked at her food like a shrew, delicately cutting each piece into impossibly small bites, chewing with precision as though the meal might bite back. In stark contrast, Uncle Vernon and Dudley devoured their plates with enthusiasm, shovelling food into their mouths with barely a pause between bites. Before long, they were reaching for seconds, their plates clattering loudly as they piled on more steak and mashed potatoes.
Harry, having just finished cleaning up the kitchen, sat quietly in the corner of the room, his stomach growling. The sound was small, but in the silent moment between bites, it echoed far too loudly in his ears. His heart skipped a beat as his uncle's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing into a glare that sent a cold shiver down Harry’s spine.
“YOU JUST HAD TO RUIN A PERFECT EVENING, DIDN’T YOU, FREAK? CAN’T EVEN SIT QUIETLY WITHOUT MAKING A SCENE!” Vernon’s voice exploded in the room, rattling the walls. Harry’s eyes welled with tears, but he didn’t dare cry out. His stomach had betrayed him, reminding him how little he’d eaten, just a mouldy piece of bread he’d found in the bin two days ago. He hadn’t had a proper meal in what felt like forever, and his body was so weak that he was ready to pass out.
Harry barely had time to uncurl from his spot before Vernon yanked him up by the scruff of his oversized shirt. With brute force, his uncle dragged him into the hallway. Harry’s small frame crumpled as Vernon kicked him, the pain shooting through his side as he was thrown out the front door and into the storm. Rain poured down in thick sheets, immediately soaking him to the bone. The cold cut through him like a knife, and he shivered uncontrollably as he scrambled to his feet.
“YOU’RE SLEEPING OUTSIDE TONIGHT!” Vernon bellowed before slamming the door shut. The sound of the lock clicking into place made it clear there would be no reprieve tonight.
It wasn’t the first time Harry had been forced to sleep outside. But this time was different. He didn’t know the area, didn’t know where the dry spots were or where to hide from the worst of the wind and rain. With no other option, he did the only thing his six-year-old mind could think of.
He began to wander.