A Place for Dreaming
Summary: Young Harry is trapped in a cupboard, and in a life where he is unwanted and unloved. But he still has spirit, and he still has dreams.
Disclaimer: Of course Harry Potter doesn't belong to me. I just love the character and the stories, and wanted to take a look at how his childhood began to shape the wizard we know and love.
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Harry's first night in the cupboard was a terrible one. It was like being buried alive, trapped in a coffin of darkness and despair. He wished he were just having another nightmare, one of the visions of fear that sometimes visited his sleeping hours. A dream, no matter how terrible, could be escaped when your eyes opened. Except Harry was awake, and the lock on the door was much more solid than any dream. No matter how many times he opened his eyes, he was still trapped in the dark.
He knew the cupboard shouldn't be small enough to really feel like a coffin. He actually had quite a bit of space when he stretched an arm out to touch the walls of his prison. Uncle Vernon had been right when he said there was plenty of room for a runt like him. Though Harry and Dudley were the same age, his cousin was the "healthy, strapping, growing boy," while Harry knew he was the scrawny one. Harry didn't mind so much, because his size let him fit into hidden places or scramble up trees when he needed to dodge Dudley's tackles. It also let him fit into this cupboard, though, and he wasn't as pleased with that. Then again, maybe this still would have been his new room even if he were as big as his cousin. In that case, smaller was definitely better.
These thoughts of reason couldn't assuage his fears. The cupboard may not have been tiny, but it was still so dark. And so empty, echoing his frantic breaths until Harry felt sure there was someone else in there with him, hiding in that blackness and waiting for him to let down his guard. Worst of all, it was locked. It was the feeling of being trapped that scared him the most. He couldn't get out no matter how hard he pounded on the door. Not that he had tried for too long. Uncle Vernon hadn't been pleased with his racket.
His Aunt and Uncle must have been so mad at him, to send him in here. He hated making them angry with him, but he never seemed to do anything else. Harry knew he was burden. He didn't know exactly what that was, but it had been repeated until he knew the word by heart. From the tone it was spoken in, he doubted it was anything good. He did know that his Aunt and Uncle were his family now, because his parents were dead. He could never be their son, like Dudley, but he tried to make them love him anyway. Or maybe not love; that was a lot to ask. Maybe just not dislike him. Care about him, a little.
It didn't look likely to happen anytime soon.
Sometimes he was just as angry with them as they were with him. It wasn't fair. He tried really hard. He followed the rules, most of the time, when Dudley didn't seem to have any rules at all. He did his chores. He never complained about his cousin's treatment of him, or when he was still hungry, or when he really wanted to go out and play instead of cleaning up the kitchen.
He still ended up in the cupboard.
Maybe they knew Harry got angry with them, too. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe he should always be grateful, and this was his punishment for failing. He might have felt guilty, if his fear had left any room for anything else. He always felt a little guilty when he didn't follow a rule.
He had broken a rule earlier, when Uncle Vernon told him about his new room. He started asking questions. Namely, he wanted to know, "Why?" Why did he have to go in the cupboard? Why couldn't he stay in one of the empty rooms upstairs? Why were they angry with him? Why did Dudley get two big rooms? Why did his uncle look so pleased at Harry's terror?
He didn't have the opportunity to ask most of the questions, of course. He only got the first word out, and that had been enough. Uncle Vernon had heard the "why" and turned to him with one of those expressions where his face was red and his eyes got really, really hard. It was enough to make Harry stop the questions, even without the rant about how his family didn't have to cater to his whims, how they were tired of his attitude and ungratefulness, how questions Were. Not. Allowed.
Harry knew that rule by heart. He heard it all the time, even in his head, the words loud and angry and forceful like thunder could be. His uncle's words had become so ingrained, that usually they came to him in his memory before he even let the first inquisitive words slip into the open air. It was hard sometimes, because he had so many questions. There were so many things he didn't understand, and he wanted to learn. He wished his cousin could show some interest in something, anything, besides his next new toy. Maybe if he asked the questions, Harry could listen to the explanations. But Dudley never asked much of anything besides when the next meal would be, and never even hinted at some of the things that puzzled Harry.
Sometimes Harry made up his own answers. Usually, they were answers that could never be real, but he laughed inwardly at the impossible fancies his imagination came up with. Like when he decided the dog in the yard next door was really a person in disguise that could change back and forth, from four feet to two. Or that the people in the paintings in the hall were really watching and listening to everything, and could talk to him if he listened hard enough. Or that the little yellow, rubber ball Harry secretly saved when Dudley threw it away bounced so high because it wanted to fly. He could perfectly picture the little wings sprouting from its sides, and wished it really could soar away from Little Whinging. Especially if Harry could follow it.
But he couldn't follow it. He couldn't even get out of his cupboard.
Harry knew he should stop coming up with such wild stories, even though Ms. Figg down the street said his imagination was a good thing. His aunt and uncle disagreed, imagination was not something to be praised in their house. And so Harry wouldn't mention his strange stories, just like he kept his questions inside, locked tight behind his lips like the door that locked him in at night. But the cupboard was dark, and it was lonely, and though he would never speak of the fanciful and wonderful things he imagined, they couldn't stop him from thinking them altogether. And in the cupboard, waiting for morning when he could finally escape and start to fix breakfast for the family he was never a part of, he let his mind flow free. He let the stories of flying motorcycles and tame owls and whispered words of love and other impossible dreams take shape, until the dark wasn't so heavy and the walls weren't quite so close.
If the cupboard could be a place for dreaming, maybe it wasn't so bad.
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Thanks for reading, and I would love to hear a word or two in a review!