Harry - The Cupboard Under the Stairs
It was only three days into the summer hols, and Harry Potter already found himself stuck once more in the cupboard under the stairs. Uncle Vernon hadn’t believed him about Sirius, at least not enough to make a difference in the way he was treated. What had made a difference was the incident with Aunt Marge the summer before. It wasn’t a pleasant difference.
Shuddering, Harry quickly turned his thoughts elsewhere—he had no desire to relive the past few days in his mind. Much better to concentrate on trying to remember potions recipes or wand movements. After all, it seemed that this summer he’d have even less time to work on his homework than any previous summer if things continued the way they were. Then again, there was every chance Uncle Vernon would get bored. Or have a massive coronary from the unusual bouts of exercise he was getting every time he was taking his fury out on Harry. At this point, Harry wouldn’t be too fussed either way.
Unfortunately he couldn’t concentrate on his review of schoolwork without also bringing memories from the school year to the forefront of his mind. He wanted to have a boring year just once. This year it was again hard for him to decide whether the good had outweighed the bad.
The assumed death threat was definitely in the bad column even if it had turned out to be nothing. It had distracted him most of the year and he figured his grades would likely have suffered as a result. His desire for vengeance was also in the bad and distracting column. He’d tried for justice in the Shrieking Shack instead of vengeance, but now that he was looking back, it wasn’t for justice’s sake but Sirius’ and maybe that was part of why he’d gotten distracted enough not to remember that night was a full moon night. He knew he was going to have to work on that; he wouldn’t let himself make similar mistakes in the future. Knowledge of the betrayal had just hurt so much and had made him a little afraid that the trusts he had placed in people would end up biting him or his friends as much as his father’s trust in that rat had bit all of them that Halloween. The dementors too had been very distracting—not to mention humiliating and heartbreaking. But they’d also led him to having a decent relationship with Professor Lupin…maybe they could keep in touch even if he hadn’t been invited back to teach. They’d also made him learn the Patronus Charm which was advanced magic and that had made him feel proud of himself. It was a nice feeling…maybe he could use that for his memory the next time he needed one. He also now knew what his parents had sounded like and had definitive proof that they loved him. Yes, it was the sound of them terrified and the proof was in the way they had died to save him and it hurt, but it was almost a good kind of hurt. If the dementors hadn’t almost kissed both Sirius and himself, they might have ended up in the good column, but as it stood, they were definitely bad column material. Then there was Hermione and Ron’s near constant bickering. He was starting to feel like they might prefer their arguing to friendship. They’d been his first friends—barring Hagrid and Hedwig—and he was scared of losing them. But at the same time if they expected him to get involved and take sides in their arguments, he might need to try to branch out. And Hermione had to tattle on his new broom. Her arguments might have been valid, but she shouldn’t have gone behind his back. It didn’t seem like something a friend would do. It was something a mum or a big sister might though. Doing something for someone’s own good…but she wasn’t either. She was his friend and his opinion should count when decisions about his good were made. If she’d taken him aside—because he knew full well that he wouldn’t have been able to listen with Ron arguing over her—and just talked to him, he was sure he would have heard her out and most likely would have agreed to take the suspicions to someone. Though he probably wouldn’t have gone to McGonagall. She hadn’t listened first year after all. So bad column. And good column since Hermione clearly cared even if she’d gone about it in a less than good way. Sirius. Sirius was most of the good column. He’d asked Harry to come live with him. It was just about the best ten minutes of his life. No more Dursleys. But…Sirius had spent a lot of time in prison. And with how dementors were, he couldn’t help but wonder if Sirius was as okay as he’d seemed once he’d calmed down from wanting to murder the rat. Maybe it was a good thing they weren’t together yet. It’d give Sirius some time to heal. And then they could be together. Only the stupid Minister hadn’t believed them about what happened. The Minister was definitely in the bad column. Stupid arse. Snape too. Or to be fair, since the man did jump in front of a werewolf to protect them, Snape gets on both. He’s still an arse.
Anyway, on to the good things. Ron and Hermione finally making up. Hermione smacking Malfoy one. Freeing Buckbeak. Freeing Sirius. Time travel was real. His dad was a stag animagus and Harry’s patronus took the same form. He got a Firebolt for Christmas, and they’d won the Quidditch trophy at long last. Hermione had laid into a teacher, even if it was only Trelawny…who now that he thought about it should be added to the bad column for her near nonstop predictions of his death. Fred and George had given him something of his dad’s, even if they didn’t know it, and that brought the total up to two. Four if you counted the glasses and the Potter hair. Oh, and time travel was really real!
He smiled a bit and tried to readjust his position. The cupboard was still the same size, and his added height, though not substantial, was making it difficult for him to remain even vaguely comfortable. Hissing when his tender back caught on one of the clothes hooks, he sighed. No matter how many bads or goods, Hogwarts was always going to win against Privet Drive.
Maybe, he’d be let out in the morning. Carefully he curled himself on the old cot mattress. A bit of sleep and maybe this nightmare would be over.
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It was three weeks. Or at least he thought it had been. There wasn’t really time in the cupboard…and he was so hazy that he knew he could have lost time even with a window or a clock. He had been let out a few times—usually to quickly use the toilet—once when Petunia needed help cleaning the oven. It didn’t count as being out when Vernon was at him. He was pretty sure he left his mind in the cupboard on those occasions. Of course, he might have sent his mind back to the cupboard when he’d cleaned the oven too. He couldn’t really remember.
This summer there had been no chores (bar the oven incident). There hadn’t been much of anything. Vernon’s fury hadn’t cooled. And he hadn’t had a coronary. Damn him. To make matters worse, every day Harry felt weaker and less able to recover after the beatings. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t need to use more than his hands to count the number of meals he’d had so far. If what he was given really counted as meals… At least Dudley was on a diet. The smell of grapefruit didn’t make it to the cupboard the way pancakes or bacon might have. He could ignore the gnawing feeling as long as nothing reminded him.
He couldn’t ignore the rawness of his back. Or the sharp pains he had with every breath. The heat radiating from his left forearm. The sickly, almost oppressive, smell of sweat and blood.
Harry was sure he wasn’t going to make it to September 1 and freedom. Even if he did, he wasn’t all too sure the Vernon would let him leave. He’d given up crying over the fact ages ago. At least he’d sent Hedwig off at the end of the school year. She’d be dead by now if he hadn’t. Vernon would have killed her, if he didn’t just let her die of starvation locked in her cage. Like it seemed he meant for Harry to do.
Death may be the next great adventure, but he wasn’t fourteen yet and a part of him really wanted to make it at least a little farther. Surely, he wasn’t meant to die like this—at the hands of a fat bigot—when he’d survived so much else. Or maybe that was it; he’d used up his nine lives already. Did people have nine? No, that was cats.
Stifling the laugh that thought tried to bring, he carefully leaned against the back of the cupboard. Lying down had made the world spin the last time he’d tried it—days ago or hours or years. Again resisting the urge to break into hysterical laughter, he let darkness claim him.