The residence of Privet Drive was a very ordinary neighborhood. In fact, most people would go ahead and say it was borderline dull. The houses were painted in white, with a small flower garden in the front yard. The families consist of a working husband, gossiping wife, and overly spoiled children. The husbands tried to one-up another with their cars and watches, their wife parade out their jewelries every month with the disguise of tea time. Children strut around talking about their new toys, their holiday destination. They were very overwhelming in their need to look best, even though they are, essentially, the same. They have better days, worse days, trophies to show off, skeletons to bury.
Privet Drive number 4, however, has a very alive skeleton that cannot be buried.
Harry James Potter was a very infamous skeleton of the Dursley family. A bad seed, they said. He was known as the troublemaker, with criminal records that matched a student of St Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. Mrs. Dursley talked very little about him, in condescending tone through pursed lips. But it was talked about in hushed whisper, from one wife to another. It was well-known to everyone that Harry Potter was a nephew to Petunia Dursley, the women of the house.
What they did not know, however, was that Harry Potter was one lonely, misunderstood boy. Innocent not, perhaps, because when he was locked in his bedroom-the cupboard under the stairs-his imagination more often than not turned violent. When he was starved, he imagined the whale sized Vernon being flayed alive. When he was hit, he imagined the obnoxious Dudley being beaten to death. And among all chaos, he imagined Petunia-not aunt, never aunt-shackled and watching. Because where was she when Harry was suffering; shivering from cold and bruised all over? Watching. Always close by, always within arms reach to help if she so desire.
He never did know why they treated him so badly. When he was very little, he tried to ask. Why was he treated differently? What made him different from Dudley, who was spoiled rotten and cherished by his family? What was wrong with him? But it lead only to more beatings. He had learned his lesson, and kept quiet most of the times. If he stayed silent, it might stop them from thinking about him. Out of sight, out of mind. It did not always work, but it was the only thing he knew that somewhat worked.
Harry Potter cannot be blamed to have dark thought about his so called family. He just endure and endure, days and nights.
Until one day, a miracle happened.
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It was one of those ordinary night when it happened. Harry was recovering from the latest beating he received from Vernon. He was huddled up in thin blanket on the corner of the room, trying to nurse his most likely broken arm. It was then when the lock on his cupboard door suddenly clicked open.
Harry froze, eyes sharp towards the door. There was no indication of what could have open the door. There was no heavy nor light footsteps, nor erratic ones. Anyone, anything that opened the lock was silent as a grave. He forced himself to hear for anything else he might have missed, but all he could hear was the faint sound of Vernon snoring from his bed. It was not his relatives, then.
But it was a chance, wasn't it? He could use it to run away. The key to the front door was hanged on the key holder beside the fridge. His aunt emergency money was inside a container above the fridge. He could leave the house with a couple of pounds to start with.
Yet where would he go, really? He could go to the neighbors for help, but they would just tell on him to Vernon and that guarantees more beating. He could try for orphanages, but all the stories Vernon told him about those places did not seem appealing. Living on the street was an option, but could he really evade criminals and police alike?
Oh well. Anywhere was better than here.
So Harry strengthened his resolve. Cautious, he waited ten minutes just to be sure before opening the door. Then, as quiet as he could, he walked towards the kitchen. He dragged the dining room chair closer to the fridge, wincing every time it makes so much as a screech against the floor. It could not be helped. He obtained the key and money easily, and quickly rushed through the door.
It was then that he saw her.
She was pretty, he guessed. Dirty, but pretty. She has chalky pale skin framed by long black hair, and was dressed in a purple knee-length dress and black shoes. Standing just on the edge of the property, she was smiling at him, in a way that is both warm and eerie. She stared at him, like knowing every demon he has inside.
"Harry Potter," she sang. Then she offered her hand at him.
Harry stared at her in wonder. She really came out of nowhere, knowing his name and offered her hand. Harry would bet his entire possession-not that there was many to begin with-that she was the one that opened the lock to his door.
How was she here? What exactly was she offering?
Then again, did it matter what she offered, if he could leave this place?
And so Harry walked forward and grasped her hand.
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Thank you for reading! Do you like the story? Should I continue? Let me know!
shygirlbobby out! :D
