Chapter 1
when I die, I hope it’s like a good nap. you know the ones where you wake up and you have this heaviness in your bones and your eyes and there’s creases in your skin and it could’ve been 20 minutes or 20 years? I hope it’s like that. I hope it’s peaceful. I hope it’s like going to sleep. don’t you?
It’s mid-December and the heats out. Aunt Petunia’s been in a tizzy since it went out, and Uncle Vernon’s been yelling himself hoarse to every customer service rep that’ll listen about his wife and son and “we won’t take this lying down! We’re paying customers!”
No one spares a single thought to Harry and his cupboard.
Harry and his very dark, very cold cupboard.
Harry and his ratty cot and blankets so old age has turned them soft and thin as spider’s silk.
Then again the Dursley’s try very, very hard not to think about Harry. He’s abnormal, you see. It’s something in his marrow. There’s no way to stamp it out. He’s just… off. Just… Harry.
Still, he can’t help but wish they paid a bit more attention to him. He’s tried very hard to just be normal, he has! He’s tried to get good marks (everyone is mad when he does better than Dudley—thinks he’s cheating) and to never get in trouble (Dudley sets him up or the teachers never listen or the teachers seem to listen a bit too much and Aunt and Uncle get very, very nasty). It never works.
Stuck now, in his lonely cupboard, like an unloved boot, Harry wishes very hard that it had worked after all. Because it’s cold. And Harry knows cold can be fun (like that one ice pop he got during the class party or the snow angel he managed to make or the lovely Christmas carolers) but right now it’s actually sort of painful. Feels more like fire than frost, actually. And Harry’s a bit too young to know what that means, but he knows it’s nothing good.
Here’s a fast fact for you that you can test out yourself: go in the kitchen and take a plate out of the cabinet. The plate is cold, right? Cooler than the rest of the house? Even though it’s inside?
Why is that?
Well, I’ll tell you why: usually your kitchen cabinets are mounted on an exterior wall. Usually gas and electric lines come in here—namely for stoves and other major appliances and light sources. Exterior walls are almost always run colder that other parts of the house.
Under stairs cupboards are, occasionally, put up against exterior walls. They’re for boots and bits and bobs, after all.
Harry longs to be upstairs in with his relatives in the master bedroom. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon bought a space heater, worried terribly for Dudley’s health. They’re all up there, cuddled together and watching the TV, which has been temporarily brought upstairs. Every now and again Petunia deigns to come down stairs for more hot chocolate and marshmallows.
She never even knocks on Harry’s door.
Harry twists on his cot and tries to focus on the friends he has with him rather than the family that left him in the cold. He shares his room with two little spiders he calls Shelly and Rupert. He’s not sure if they’re actually a boy and a girl but it’s more fun to pretend he’s got one of each as friends—even if they never play soldiers with him or color. It’s about the company, as Mrs. Figg always says! And she always means cats, so it’s totally fine that Harry means spiders.
It’s a little too hard to talk to Shelly and Roo today, though. It seems the cold is making itself Harry’s only friend for today, which is a real shame because he had the most wonderful dream. There was laughter like the super villains on the telly and green light like a fire work and lots of crunches and heat. Maybe even an explosion.
Shelly and Roo are good listeners.
Harry hopes, as he drifts off into a fitful sleep, that one day he might be able to listen back
ITS EASY. (STOP)
ITS AS EASY AS FALLING ASLEEP. (STOP)
IT DOESNT HURT AT ALL. (STOP)
WERE WAITING FOR YOU. (STOP)
WE MISS YOU. (STOP)
WE MISS YOU. (STOP)
WE MISS YOU. (STOP)
(END TRANSMISSION)
“WELL,” It says, “THIS IS UNUSUAL.” Which, Harry thinks glumly, is very usual for him.
The next thing Harry thinks is: it’s so quiet. Under The Stairs is never, ever quiet. Dudley is always running up and down the stairs and Aunt is always nattering and Uncle is always stomping. Number 4, Privet Drive is always moaning and groaning in the night, the wood of the house and concrete foundation arguing with one another about whose job is hardest and needs more repairs.
Similarly, the yard is always teeming with life—and with life comes noise. Nosy neighbors. Chirping birds. Buzzing insects. Chatty garden snakes. Dudley and his friend Piers Polkiss pulling up begonias. Aunt Petunia stalking the most neighbors. Everything lives and breaths and hums with life.
”I DIDNT KNOW YOU COULD MAKE YOUR WAY HERE, CHILD” says It, voice old like the lichen and moss growing on the old abandoned church on Chatham Street.
”Er,” says Harry, fumbling awkwardly with his glasses, “‘m very sorry to bother you. I was just in my cu-cousin’s house. And now I’m here.” He’s not supposed to be in a cupboard, Aunt told him. Just another thing that makes him weird. The rest of the statement is true though; he doesn’t want to anger It.
”YOURE NOT A BOTHER.” says It.
”Oh,” says Harry, because no one has ever said that before. “Thank you. I’m, um, Harry. I’m Harry.”
”I KNOW” It says. “NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN, HARRY. IT HASNT BEEN VERY LONG, BUT ITS NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN.”
”Oh,” says Harry, because no one’s ever said that either. Also, he’s sure he’s never met It before. He would’ve remembered.
”ILL HAVE TO SEND YOU BACK IM AFRAID,” It sighs, and Harry — Harry wants to stay. He wants to stay with It and Its kindness.
He tells It as much.
”IM SORRY,” It says, “BUT YOU CANT BE HERE. YOU KNOW THAT.”
”But I want to be here with you,” says Harry, even though he can’t quite look at It, even though it’s silent as the grave, even though everything is just a little bit… off. There’s something about It, something about This Place that’s intoxicating. He wants to stay. He needs to. It’s like an ache he was unaware of has settled; he never knew it was there before now, and now Harry can’t unknow it. Unless he stays.
“I’ll be good!”
“YOU ALWAYS ARE.”
“Please don’t make me go away. It’s not cold here.” It eyes Harry consideringly.
“IF YOU LOVE SOMETHING, LET IT GO. IF IT WAS YOURS, IT WILL COME BACK TO YOU.” Harry can’t tell if It is taking to him or about him, but he feels warmer somehow. Still, he wants to stay.
“Wait,” he says, “please—!”
He’s back in the chill of his cupboard.
Shelly and Rupert lie cold and crooked on the ground.