The Locker of Potter
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because a cupboard is a prison
and davy jones is risen
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The wave crested and fell, and he rose, spluttering, to the sight of endless seas. Harry choked on his breath, reeking, as it was, of salt. He sat up gingerly, feeling the pull of his injuries, unknown as they might be. The wood beneath him creaked, and he froze.
Quickly, his situation rose to the fore, undeniable and inescapable.
He was adrift in the oceans, nothing but the cupboard door as his raft. His cupboard.
Water slithered into the crevices of his wrinkled skin, pruned from moisture, and he shivered with both terror and cold.
I'm a wizard, he commanded himself, remembering first year and Ron's words - "ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?"
I have magic. His fingers scrabbled at Dudley's oversized clothes, desperate, but knowing the futility of the situation. He had no wand. Harry wanted to scream. Wanted to know how he got here. Wanted to go home to Hogwarts.
The wind sliced at his vulnerable skin, and he admitted to himself that he would prefer a month in the cupboard over this. Stop it. Whining won't help. He shoved his hands against the wood, and thought it ironic that his prison and punisher, for all those years, was now his saviour. Harry's eyes traced over the seas - deep blue; far-out - and the small, rumbling waves which formed little crests. There were no birds, no insects, no people.
With a groan, he let himself slump back onto the 'raft', and assessed his injuries. Oh, thanks, Uncle Vernon, he thought sarcastically. Carefully, he ran a hand over his ribs, and gasped at the pain. He abandoned his investigation, knowing nothing of broken or cracked ribs and how to care for them.
An experimental touch to his face had him wincing, and he drew his fingers close to his eyes, tracking the feel of dried blood. He would've been worried that Vernon had damaged his cornea, except that his vision was fine. Perfect, in fact, thanks to Hermione (third year, Eye-Corrector Potion).
That left his head, which, if possible, he knew even less about. Perhaps he had a concussion, and he was only imagining the ocean writhing beneath him. As if in angry response, a wave rose and crashed on him, the sting of salt in his eyes, the bite of the cold, the motion of the seas was no hallucination. There was no escape.
For hours he drifted, shivering and choking on briny water. He strained his eyes for land, but saw none. At times he worried that it wan't the cold that would kill him, or the water lapping at him, but the sea creatures below. He sometimes convinced himself that there was a shark, or a giant squid, or some killer whale. Hadn't Hermione mentioned migrating whales? Or were those Sperm Whales? He couldn't remember.
How he wished he did.
What of Mer Creatures? Sirens? Did they live in the ocean, or just near magical places, such as Hogsmead and the Great Lake? Lying there, teeth chattering and with hands that were surely turning blue, he swore to himself that if he survived this, he would learn everything he could about anything magical. What kind of wizard was he?
At this point, not one at all.
Harry trembled. And not from the freeze in the air.
Wizard or no, he knew one thing: it was bad when someone could no longer feel the cold. He pulled his legs higher up onto the cupboard door and was thankful for the numbness that dulled his injuries, no matter how worrying this 'non-feeling' was.
He took a deep breath, sucking in as much oxygen as he could. Absent-mindedly, he felt a small, entirely forgettable, sting of pain from his chest. "I'm goin' to die," he whispered to himself, watching how a splinter of wood detached from his raft, swelled from water and weakened by the thrashing of the sea.
Later, again. "I am going to die."
Quietly, then, "No."
Yer a wizard, 'Arry. An' a thumpin' good 'un, after yer trained up a bit, I'd say, Hagrid had said.
"No." Harry squeezed his eyes shut, mouth a straight line. I have magic. I don't need a foci, he tried to convince himself. He imagined his wand, saw it in his mind. The Holly wood gleamed, and sparks of red and gold exploded from the tip. He was holding it. Lifting it. Saying "Point Me, People." His skin tingled. He imagined the magic uncoiling from his chest like a snake, sliding down his arm.
Pins and needles erupted on his flesh. "Point Me, People." He opened his eyes. Nothing. Not a light, not a spark, not a glint of magic.
Harry frowned, feeling stupid. What was a Point Me Spell going to do? It wouldn't bring him help, only tease him, if anything, with the idea of it.
And so, over and over, he murmured: "Bring Me, People," knowing it wasn't a real spell, but hoping it would work anyway; hoping the way only a dying thirteen-year old boy could - without reservation, without logic.
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"Bring Me, People."
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"Bring Me, People."
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"Bring Me, People."
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And when he couldn't say it any longer, when his throat gave out and his voice dwindled into a harsh, scraping sound, he thought it, and he didn't stop until the blackness took over.
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Bring Me -
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… bring … me …
Amongst the water and the salt and the waves and the froth, wood the colour of a black pearl creaked.
And it wasn't Harry's cupboard-raft.
Please do leave a comment. Breathe easy.