He Who Has No Name
On a perfectly normal day, on a perfectly normal town, on a perfectly normal house a perfectly normal family slept in their perfectly normal bedrooms, resting for another perfectly normal day of their perfectly normal lives. All but one tiny kid, awake beneath the stairs. He was a very strange kid you see, at least his Aunt and Uncle seemed to think so, embarrassed as they were of his presence in any given room, and oh! how scandalous it was if he were to be seen or heard by any others!
He had no name, he made no sound, and he was never seen by any. It had been wishful thinking to hope for a routine such as Dudley’s. When it came to school, he was kept behind, in the same old tiny room beneath the stairs, where everything the family wanted to forget went. “Dudley, time to wake up!” Called Aunt Petunia. Names were such a funny thing you see, at least he seemed to think so, as he listened from the door of the cupboard how his family talked to one another. “Petunia!”, called his uncle, as he walked down the stairs. Bang! Bang! Bang! above his head. “Vernon, dearest please do refrain from waking up the entirety of Britain.” chastised his aunt with a loving voice.
For a short period of time, he believed his name had to be Freak Dursley. It was only logical, but as he is grown now (7 and 6 months, he counted) he can tell you that freak is no name, not even his, but as he is unlike all other kids, who were called and loved and remembered, he had no use for a name. No, he, who carries the mark of the storm, had no need for a name, as he was not ever called or loved or remembered. He listened beneath the stairs as they went on with their day, where he was often found not heard, found not seen, and found only when needed.
As the door of the cupboard opened to start his day Harry caught a glimpse of a pair of mischievous eyes hanging from the kitchen window, a black cat. Tall and pretty, it was a rather robust cat, he had the strange feeling it was observing him, but as he had never seen a cat before he thought to himself “perhaps it has never seen a child before either, or if it has perhaps never one quite as strange as I, it is naturally, rather rare to find a child with no name” so he wasn't very unnerved.
Bang! The door knocked.
Oh? Had he been left alone today? that was most strange indeed, freakish even, as the Dursleys never did anything they didn't do before and behaved exactly as they always did. Walking cautiously, he peaked down the stairs, the door was indeed closed, and as he silently made his way down, he noticed not a single sound in the house, he looked and searched but found no one else.
He was alone.
He hadn't been alone in the house ever at all, if the Dursleys were ever to leave they did so with him locked perfectly under the stairs, where he could not be seen or heard, and yet, he was alone today. Choosing not to overthink it he indulged himself the view of the cat, it had managed its way inside with great precision and was on its hind-legs aiming at the patio’s doorknob, which at the time seemed pretty natural to do.
As the cat let itself out of the house he came to a realization. It had never occurred to him before that, given that he was as able as all his family, he could as well get on with his life, go places, meet people, read books, and learn maths. Perhaps even, find a name, he wasn’t picky, any would do so long as it was used, called and praise fell upon it.
Decided then, he walked back to the cupboard beneath the stairs, and in the blue backpack Dudley had refused to reuse this year, instead demanding a red one, he packed all that belonged to him, that is to say all the strangest of things in the perfectly normal house of the perfectly normal Dursleys. He thought, as he approached the door, that perhaps this would please his aunt and uncle, as they always did seem rather upset at the fact that he lived here with them, where his freakishness tainted all their hard worn effort to be perfectly normal. He didn't think Dudley would have much of an opinion, as he wasn't entirely sure Dudley knew he existed, perhaps he thought him a ghost, and as ghost are rather strange he thought it best not to mention it to his parents, he was sometimes unnaturally kind like that, he thought somewhat surprised, that he would end up missing his cousin, who was perfectly normal and would grow up to continue being so, perhaps easier now that he wouldn't live beneath his stairs.
The cat led him through the woods that were, apparently, behind the row of perfectly normal houses that constituted Privet Drive, his, now previous, address.
Plop, Plop, Plop, he followed along in the snow, and never had he ever walked for so long before, as never had he ever been outside before; the light was quite bright, not quite sun but blinding non the less, he couldn't see very far ahead of himself, roughly a couple of meters away before it got blurry, like the background of a painting.
The snow was thick, the trees were thin and tall, all leaning against one another, snowy owls slept up where he couldn’t see them anymore, the panorama became so monotonous he allowed himself to wonder on his next steps. Initially he wondered about the cat’s presence, which seemed rather strange to him as the Dursleys were notoriously not lovers of cats, he thought, “Cats are nothing but furry pests" commented his Aunt Petunia about the neighbour’s pets one time, "Why would you feed such a rowdy thing! Spending all your time begging it for attention! Oh no! This house is never to host a cat!" Complained his Uncle when Dudley first asked, and "They are rather rude, cats, always hissing at me when I get near, no, I don’t like them very much!” Declared Dudley last he'd heard. He decided then it was best they had both left the Dursleys behind, lest they cut the cats tongue and claws to appease themselves.
“Perhaps I’m being led to a cat family,” Thought to himself “would it not be fitting if instead the cats thought of us as rowdy and commanding? Picking them up and deciding for them their housing, I sure hope the cat family does not think of me this way at all.”
Yet plop, plop, plop, he followed along, until he was oh so terribly tired, he could walk no longer. He was a rather small child after all and the woods were all so very large, endless truly. The cat had kept walking still, warm in its furry coat, when his legs gave out, folding themselves inward until he met the floor. Would he be buried here? An unnamed grave fitting for an unnamed child. He would be able to read it, of course.
He had never actually been taught to read, and as he barely ever spoke he was not sure he knew for certain how some of the words sounded, but he was irreparably curious, and as when he was younger he was not yet strong enough to clean or mop or sweep, he had a lot of empty time alone under the stairs with nothing but the books no one ever wanted to read. “I wonder if there is a story on freezing snow” As he closed his eyes, “A book would be unreadable if buried in snow, for snow is nothing but really cold water, no it just wouldn’t do—but then I wonder if the book itself was made of snow, would it be readable at all?”.
Shortly then a different thought occurred him, “If I shall still be here when the next storm arrives, I wonder, would I float about while the trees remain? It’d be awfully rude, no doubt. And what little they will help me if they think me impolite! I’d float away with no course!”
Cold and numb fingers alerted him back on himself, his eyes grew heavier the second and he doubted he’d keep consciousness much longer. The snow was thick under him, soft like a blanket, the trees thin and tall above him, the wind bit right through his conscience, and soon enough he was lost to the light state of sleep, lulled by the alarmed calls of a cat who had long lost him down the path.
He dreamed then of a family for him, a family of people just like him, perhaps just as strange, and in his slumber, he longed for their laughter and for them to call him by a name, any would suffice, perhaps Bob, or Martin, even Matilda would do, just as long as they called him, like all other families called for their children. His imagination provided for him images of people in his own image, hair unruly as his own, crooked grins and curious eyes.
In here, he was not cold at all, and as he settled in the comforting presence of all those, he never knew he had lost he wondered if today he would see him as well. Sir Cricket Sir, he called him, as he had never offered a name, perhaps nameless as well. He was a character of the plethora of creatures that visited him on his coldest nights, when sleep took him where he was seen and heard; the deepest caverns of his imagination, where he was magic and special, and all he did had a propose. Cricket Sir would tell him stories of wars, and friends, and magic, and would calmly explain to him all that he didn’t understand.
This night Sir Cricket wasn’t peaceful, or kind, or understanding, ripping through his dream family in search of him, he began to scream.
“Idiot boy! What have you done!”
Intrigued he answered.
“I sure know nothing of it, Sir Cricket Sir! I just got here; you see”.
Perplexed Cricket took a couple of breaths and took in his surroundings.
“You are freezing dear”, Cricket explained, calmly this time.
“I don’t feel cold sir, thank you for your concern”.
“No dear, your body, outside, we are freezing. We ought to wake up soon, get some place warm”.
And as Sir Cricket was always logical, he made sure to explain just as thoroughly.
“We can’t do that sir, we are too far, it was hours last I saw someplace warm, and I am so very tired now I’ll be of no use walking”.
“Whatever shall we do, we can’t just freeze tonight! What of your destiny?”
“Sir Cricket Sir, you are too kind, but I must remind you we are only dreaming, well, I am, perhaps since you live in my dreams this is your reality then, how very interesting indeed, but regardless the facts stand: I am a child of no name, and I have never been seen or heard, I carry no destiny and I live no life”.
“Oh, child no. No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong! You do have a name! Of course you do! I will show you! Allow me to show you, please”, begged Cricket then, like he had never before.
“Oh, but sir? How could you show me something I don’t know? If we both reside in the land of all I do know, there simply is no place you can go where I have not been before”.
“You must let me outside, that’s how! I will take over for a little bit, just long enough to get us someplace warm, where your name sits, waiting as it always has, for the day you allow me to show you”.
“You can do that sir?”
“You can dear, of course you can! Allow me, won't you?”
“If you are sure sir…”