Prologue
CHAPTER 1: Prologue
When Harry had been younger, much much younger than he was at five, he dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relative barging inside the Dursley’s house to come take him away.
But he’s older now, and he learned dreams don’t really come true like they do in the storybooks he read at the library. There wasn’t anyone coming for him. His father didn’t have brothers or sisters, and his mother only had Aunt Petunia. He was no princess for a knight to slay a dragon for, and his cupboard was no tower to climb up to.
At almost six, Harry is much much smarter than the average year 4. That’s what the librarian says, who herself has a nine-year-old daughter who still couldn’t count to a hundred. Harry could count further than that, but he said nothing beyond a quiet thank you when the kind librarian praised him for the first time in his life. His smarts is not something he can be proud of and happy about, he thinks. After all, counting to a thousand couldn’t help him pull the weeds off the backyard all day, or scrub the floor squeaky clean whenever Dudley comes home playing with Piers all muddy and wet. It didn’t help him beyond a distraction whenever Uncle Vernon decides he doesn’t deserve dinner for the night. Counting to a thousand wasn’t enough to keep his stomach from hurting and growling.
But like most nights, he’s counting again.
One… His arm hurts from being dragged from the kitchen after he finished washing the dishes. He wasn’t allowed to eat tonight. There weren’t any leftovers.
Fifty-eight… It took a long time for the small light bulb in his room to function. It’s very old and sometimes the flickering makes Harry dizzy. He hates using it most nights but he doesn’t have any other choice. He hates the dark more.
A hundred and sixteen… The spiderweb on the shelf inside his cupboard was missing its owner. Harry wondered where the spider had gone to.
Two-hundred and forty-three… The baggy shirt he’s wearing is sticking uncomfortably on his skin. It’s summer, and the air is so humid he might as well have moved to the tropics. Harry hadn’t had a shower in almost a week, having the privilege taken from him because he spilled a bit of Aunt Petunia’s tea on the pristine new table.
Three-hundred and sixty-six… He wished he brought home a book from the library. He wouldn’t have to be so bored and couped up in his room tonight.
Four-hundred and twelve… Harry really shouldn’t have forgotten to pick up Dudley’s bike from the neighbor’s house. Really though, he often wondered why Dudley takes his bike out in the first place. He never even rode on it at all. Maybe it’s because Piers has one and Dudley hated not having everything. Or maybe because he just wants little Harry drag it two blocks of a distance in the early evening when everyone is at home huddled around a table for a meal.
Five-hundred and thirty-seven… He’s beginning to feel the hunger in his tummy. The small bottle of water hidden under his ratty-old blanket is all dried up. He drank it empty last night and hasn’t had the chance to sneak some more during the day. When was the last time he ate anything? Maybe it was yesterday at lunch. The librarian’s daughter gave him half of her sandwich.
Six hundred and eighty… Harry softly thumps the back of his head on the rickety wall of the cupboard and tried to create a rhythm. He didn’t thump it very hard even though he wants to because he didn’t want his aunt or uncle to hear.
Seven-hundred and twenty-one… There’s a knock on the door. It must be Mr. Polkiss returning Dudley’s bike. Harry rather liked Mr. Polkiss. He’s not mean like his son or rude like his wife. Mr. Polkiss sometimes gives him sweets behind Piers’ and Dudley’s back and tells him to be a good kid. He wished his own uncle would be more like Mr. Polkiss.
Eight-hundred and fifty-nine… Aunt Petunia must have opened the door because the shadow it cast onto Harry’s cupboard through the small rectangular barred hole wasn’t all that big. And the steps were too quiet. Like a mouse. Harry wanted to giggle.
Eight-hundred and seventy-two… It wasn’t Mr. Polkiss. Harry couldn’t identify the voice, nor could he understand anything from the conversation. His room wasn’t far from the door but if Aunt Petunia and the visitor are talking on the porch, all he could actually hear were muffled voices. Unless they were screaming, of course. Aunt Petunia would never scream at anyone apart from Harry.
Nine-hundred… Harry gasped quietly. Aunt Petunia yelled at the visitor to leave. Uncle Vernon came to her rescue like a bear chasing a deer. His footsteps shook Harry’s entire tiny room that all of his toy soldiers fell on his mattress. Even the jars at the top shelf wobbled.
Nine-hundred and twenty-five… They were screaming now. At least Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were. The visitor wasn’t leaving, Harry knew that much. They weren’t leaving and weren’t screaming back. Sometimes he thinks he hears his name being mentioned but he probably just misheard. There was no way his relatives would call him Harry, and it was absolutely impossible for a stranger to even know his name.
Nine-hundred and fifty… Harry was pretty sure about it now. They really were talking about him! His relatives and a man with an angry voice. He couldn’t catch up to what it’s about exactly because he couldn’t move on from the fact that someone else apart from the librarian, Mr. Polkiss, and the weird old cat-lady from across the street had spoken his name.
Nine-hundred and seventy-two… The front door banged open by force and Harry gasped loudly, banging his head with a heavy thump, unable to keep his shock from showing. The footsteps outside his room stopped abruptly and Harry shook in fear. He wasn’t allowed to make a sound, especially if there are visitors. He learned that the hard way when he was three and a half.
Nine-hundred and eighty… The man let out a quiet growl as if he was trying not to explode. Harry heard it a lot of times from his uncle before. He didn’t want to find out what this man will do. The thing is, if he wasn’t so scared and in all over his head, Harry would have heard a soft murmuring from behind his cupboard door.
Nine-hundred and ninety-seven… The door’s knob turned and a bright flash of light from the living room almost blinded Harry entirely. A dark silhouette appeared in front of him, crouching to his level and visibly shaking. Then Harry realized he can no longer see the man’s face, and not because the light was behind him, but because Harry had closed his eyes. He wished on all the stars in the sky that the punishment wouldn’t involve a belt or five.
“Harry…”
One thousand.