The dark child

The sky over Little Whinging was a dull gray, the kind of gray that seemed to press down on the inhabitants of the small suburban town, making their lives just a little bit drearier. On Privet Drive, the houses stood in neat, identical rows, each striving to outdo its neighbor in terms of outward perfection. Number Four Privet Drive, however, held a secret that contradicted its pristine exterior.

Inside, the Dursley family was finishing breakfast. Vernon Dursley, a large man with a bushy mustache, read the morning paper, occasionally making gruff noises of disapproval at the latest headlines. Petunia Dursley, a thin, horse-faced woman, busied herself with clearing the table and making sure her son Dudley, a round boy with a face not unlike his father's, was satisfied.

But there was another member of the household, one who was not seated at the table, nor considered part of the family. Harry Potter, a small, skinny boy with unruly black hair and bright green eyes, was in his cupboard under the stairs. He was seven years old, but his small stature and the haunted look in his eyes made him appear even younger. Harry lived in a state of constant fear and exhaustion, a result of the relentless abuse he suffered at the hands of his aunt, uncle, and cousin.

Harry's day began like any other. The sound of Uncle Vernon's bellowing voice jolted him awake. "Boy! Get out here and start on the breakfast!"

Harry scrambled out of his cupboard, his thin hands shaking slightly as he hurried to the kitchen. He knew better than to be slow; any delay would result in punishment. As he entered the kitchen, Aunt Petunia shot him a look of pure disdain.

"Don't just stand there, you useless boy. Get to work," she snapped, her voice sharp as a knife.

Harry nodded quickly and began to prepare breakfast, his small hands moving deftly as he fried eggs, made toast, and cooked bacon. He had become quite adept at cooking over the years, having been forced to learn from a young age. As he worked, Dudley waddled into the kitchen, already demanding more food.

"Mom! I want more bacon! And make sure it's crispy this time!"

Aunt Petunia gave Dudley a syrupy smile. "Of course, Diddykins. Harry, you heard your cousin. Make it crispy!"

Harry bit back a retort and continued cooking, careful to make Dudley's bacon just right. He served breakfast to the Dursleys, taking care to remain as invisible as possible. Once they were done eating, Harry knew it was his turn to eat the scraps left behind. He quickly grabbed a piece of toast and nibbled on it, his stomach growling with hunger.

Uncle Vernon eyed him with suspicion. "You better not be slacking off, boy. There's a lot to do today."

Harry shook his head. "No, sir. I'll start on the chores right away."

The list of chores was long and grueling, but Harry was used to it. He cleaned the house from top to bottom, washed the car, weeded the garden, and even polished the silverware. The work was physically demanding, especially for a boy his age, but Harry didn't complain. Complaining would only make things worse.

As Harry scrubbed the kitchen floor, Dudley watched him with a smirk. "Hey, Potter, you're missing a spot," he taunted, kicking some dirt onto the freshly cleaned floor.

Harry clenched his teeth but didn't respond. He knew better than to rise to Dudley's bait. Instead, he continued cleaning, his mind wandering to a place far away from Privet Drive. He imagined a life where he was loved and cared for, where he didn't have to live in fear of the Dursleys. But such a life seemed like a distant dream, something that could never be real.

One day, as Harry was cleaning, something unexpected happened. He was in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor with a brush, when a sudden surge of anger coursed through him. It wasn't an uncommon feeling; Harry often felt angry and frustrated with his lot in life. But this time, the anger seemed to take on a life of its own.

Without warning, the glass he was cleaning shattered, sending shards flying across the room. Harry gasped, his heart racing as he stared at the broken pieces. Aunt Petunia's scream pierced the air, followed by the heavy footsteps of Uncle Vernon.

"What have you done, boy?" Uncle Vernon roared, his face turning an alarming shade of purple.

"I-I didn't mean to," Harry stammered, backing away from the broken glass.

"Didn't mean to? Didn't mean to?" Uncle Vernon bellowed. "You ungrateful little freak! How dare you destroy my property?"

Before Harry could react, Uncle Vernon grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back to his cupboard. The door slammed shut, and Harry heard the sound of the lock clicking into place. He was plunged into darkness, his heart pounding with fear.

In the darkness, Harry nursed his bleeding hand and wondered why these strange things happened around him. It wasn't the first time something like this had occurred. There had been other incidents, times when his anger or fear seemed to cause inexplicable things to happen. But Harry had learned to keep these events to himself. The Dursleys already hated him enough; he didn't need to give them more reasons.

As he lay on his cot, Harry's thoughts drifted to his parents. He didn't remember them, having been told by the Dursleys that they had died in a car crash when he was just a baby. But sometimes, in his dreams, he saw flashes of their faces. A woman with red hair and green eyes, much like his own. A man with glasses and a kind smile. Harry wondered what his life would have been like if they had lived. Would he have been happy? Would he have known love and kindness?

The hours passed slowly in the darkness of the cupboard. Harry's stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. But he knew better than to hope for food. The Dursleys often forgot to feed him, or perhaps they just didn't care.

As night fell, Harry finally drifted off to sleep, his dreams filled with visions of a life he could never have.