It was the dead of night in Surry, and the residents of #4 Private Drive were quiet, its inhabitants all sleeping besides one. Underneath the cupboard door below the stairs lit up and repeatedly descended into darkness with a dull flickering light.
Inside the small space was a little boy lying on his back. He had round glasses taped together at the middle and a mop of messy black hair that hung over into his eyes. Those jade eyes stared at the flame that erupted from the small lighter in his hand, the fire jumping and flickering while filling the space with a dull orange glow.
It provided a little heat to his thumb that was right next to the flame, but it gave that tiny bit of comfort better than the old thin throw blanket he had thrown over his body.
The boy, Harrison, was the only one in the house who had to deal with the November night's coldness. It would only get colder with the approaching December and January. His relatives were snug and warm in their beds and little space heaters to comfort them, leaving him to fend for himself.
Harrison's relatives, the Dursleys, were not the normal family that they portrayed to themselves to the people on the outside. They were not the kind, loving family that took in their orphaned nephew out of the goodness of their hearts and who had to, unfortunately, deal with that orphan's misconduct.
No. Far from it. Ever since his Aunt Petunia had found him on their doorstep one October morning with only a small note of explanation, his life had been a living hell. He was only a burden on their 'perfect' lives: a problem child, a delinquent.
But he should be grateful, though, right? That's what his Aunt and Uncle would always say. They took him in, fed him (barely), clothed him (did Dudley's old oversized hand-me-downs count?), even sheltered him (That's funny, he thought, looking around the cupboard he was in).
He should be grateful that they threatened to abandon him at some random orphanage. Thankful that they hadn't just left him to die in some alley when they'd initially found him.
Perhaps he would have been better off at an orphanage.
Harrison shook his head, putting the lighter down beside the broken toy soldiers sitting on the little shelf. Toys that Dudley had abandoned years ago.
No, nothing would change. Whether he was here or at an orphanage. He'd be under the authorities of adults that wouldn't and didn't give any kind of fuck about him. No adult could genuinely be trusted unconditionally, he learned.
Not the neighbors who just accepted anything his relatives told them. And not the teachers who ignored the obvious signs of abuse or even straight up not believe him whenever he tried to voice his problems. The police were out of the question.
They didn't care, and he doubted they ever would. Maybe he was better off dead when he'd been found. At least he wouldn't be aware enough to even notice he was dying.
Harrison would be lying if he said he'd never thought of taking his own life. At least he'd be going by his own terms, and with what dignity he'd manage to still have—dark thoughts for a 9-year-old. But, perhaps thankfully, he had never been able to go beyond the ideas appearing in his head. Maybe it was pride or stubbornness. Or perhaps it was some small will to live deep down that spurred his desire to prove these people wrong. To see freedom, a life away from here that he'd always dreamed about.
And tonight may be the start of everything. Harrison had his game plan, had a solid one for at least a year now. All he needed was the right timing and the right mindset to actually pull through it.
Because part of him didn't want to leave the familiarity of this life. Unlike being on the streets, Harrison knew who the threat was and the routine. But no, he needed to go. He was sneaky enough to get out without any trouble and unnoticed.
Living on the streets would be hard; it was hard for anyone but even more difficult for a child. But Harrison believed he had a good chance. And he knew he'd never see that chance if he didn't leave eventually. The violence was escalating as of late, he thought bitterly, poking softly at his side and letting loose a hiss of pain. He didn't think his ribs were broken; he doubted he'd be able to even get up if that were the case. They were possibly just bruised. It wouldn't be the first time.
Uncle Vernon was a large fat man, like a walrus, and he favored getting physical with his nephew. They were getting worse as the days went by, especially ever since the 'freaky' stuff started happening around him.
One time, Harrison appeared on top of his school building when he was hiding from Dudley and his gang one afternoon. There was no way he'd have been able to get up there from where he'd been crouched behind a dumpster. But it was like he'd teleported.
A teacher caught him, and his Aunt was called up to the school by the principal. Harrison had been sent to his cupboard for 3 days without meals and a beating with his Uncle's favorite leather belt when he'd returned from work.
His hair, which was always messy and uncontrollable, had been getting too long for Aunt Petunia's taste one day. It made no sense to Harrison as his hair always seemed to be easily manageable when it was longer.
But "boys were not supposed to have long hair. Long hair was for girls' Aunt Petunia had spat at him when he'd dared to question her. She shaved his head with clippers, not caring if she nicked his ears of skin. She left his bangs so that it would still cover his forehead and the scar that was there.
The hair had grown back overnight, even longer than before. The beating he'd received that night had rendered him unconscious for several hours.
The scar was like a lightning bolt, jagged lines going in multiple directions across the entirety of his forehead, down his temples and the bridge of his nose, and under his eyes. His relatives had told him that he'd gotten it from the car crash his parents had died in—something about a piece of glass cutting into his face.
It was clearly a lie. There was no way the glass had caused that. Harrison liked to think he'd been struck by bright green lightning.
Harrison grunted firmly suddenly, grabbing the lighter again and shoving it into the oversized pants he wore. Another thing he'd been given that used to belong to Dudley. Freaks didn't deserve new clothing after all. They were held up by the old belt to keep them on his skinny hips.
Harrison pushed the cupboard door open quickly, remembering that the hinges squeak rather loudly when moved. It was better to open it all at once and get the noise over with rather than slowly open it.
He listened for footsteps or anything moving upstairs. His Aunt and Uncle sometimes slept with their bedroom door open. But the night stayed still and silent besides the occasional thunderous snore coming from the mouth of his walrus uncle.
He slipped out and then leaned back in to grab the backpack he'd taken from the lost and found at school. The one he had before (another forgotten relic of Dudley) had been destroyed weeks ago during an afternoon of "Harry Hunting." He didn't dare complain about it out of fear of being punished for even thinking of accusing such an act on "Precious Diddykins!"
He grabbed his large flannel and pulled it on. He decided to bring the other hand-me-down clothes. The more layers he had at his disposal, the better, and they were better than nothing. Harrison shoved his throw blanket to the bottom of the bag and put the clothes on top after quickly folding them.
He went into the kitchen, every visible surface cleaned and smelling of product from that night's dinner. He hadn't gotten so much as a crumb despite it being him who did all the cleaning and most of the cooking.
Harrison always wondered why he'd never died from starvation or lack of consistent nutrients. His freakiness, he concluded.
In the pantry, he filled his bag with some cans of soup and other food that wouldn't expire too quickly. He would have packed his bag in advance to this, but no doubt his relatives would notice things missing. Anytime anything went lost in the house, it ultimately got blamed on him anyway. Still, he didn't want to add more attention to himself.
But now, he didn't care. He'd be long gone by the time they noticed. He grabbed a flashlight and pocketknife from the draw by the kitchen sink, shoving them into the side pockets of the bag. He listened out again for anything before going back into the front hall. His Uncle always left his wallet and car keys in the table's dish by the front door. Harrison took all the paper money from the wallet and a few gift cards to stores in London. There could still be money on them.
He left the credit and debit cards. He knew that they could be tracked somehow; They left a trail. Besides, unlike the gift cards, credit and debit cards could be frozen and shut down when Uncle Vernon noticed they were missing. Harrison could remember a similar situation to his Uncle before, where he'd had his card stolen. He went on ranting and raving for days about it, having to close the card and order a new one.
That anger was taken out on the poor five-year-old Harrison at the time, of course.
There was a potted plant by the door where Harrison got to his knees and began digging in the soil for a prescription bottle that he knew was there. Inside the bottle was a rolled-up wad of cash with a rubber band wrapped around it. He smiled brightly at his so-far success, shoving the bottle and the items from the wallet into the bag's smaller pouch. He'd count all he had later on when he settled somewhere.
Harrison debated whether to go upstairs for more stuff but decided against it in the end. He'd been lucky thus far that night, and he didn't want to push it beyond its limits. Harrison was resilient for his young age; he'd make do with what he had, which was more than he had first thought he'd find.
Ready to finally leave, Harrison slipped out of the front door, shutting it behind him. He didn't worry much about being seen considering the hour, but he still made sure to keep away from street lamps. He glanced behind him at the house he'd been forced to survive in day to day for 9 years, then the other homes around them, the street. His eyes landed on the house further down the road.
Whenever the Dursley's were out and didn't want to bring Harrison along (which was the majority of the time), he would be sent over to Ms. Figg, a kind, old, widowed woman who lived with her many cats. She always fed him whenever he would come by and treated him nice, which made him an exception to Harrison's views on most adults.
She'd let him watch cartoons on her television, something he wasn't allowed at the Dursleys. Ms. Figg didn't force him to do chores, though it was something that the Dursleys encouraged her to do. Thankfully, she never listened. But Harrison willingly cleaned up after himself and her when he was there, doing the dishes and helping her with things she couldn't do at her elderly age. It was a little way he could give back to the woman who had done good things for him.
He would certainly miss her. He reached into his bag and went towards the house. He'd grabbed a small notebook and pen from the Dursleys' during his little raid. He figured it would give him something to do, draw or write maybe. He wrote on the paper; a simple message, a thank you really, and a vague goodbye. He gave no explanations; it was unneeded.
Thank you for everything you've done for me. I wish you all the best. ~Harrison P.
Harrison smiled softly as he signed his name and put the paper into the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Taking a breath, Harrison looked around again, his hot breath forming a mist in front of his face. Maybe he'd come back and visit Ms. Figg later in life. He could do this. He could survive and find a better life somewhere. He'd live to see the day he'd appear back to see the familiar elderly face and her cats. He'd live for himself.
And that night, the Dursley household became the trio it once was before. His absence was barely noticed, and when it was, it was said they'd shipped him off to some military school for delinquents. No police were called, no one searched. Why would he? After all, what reason would the Dursleys have for lying? It was only a matter of time before the Dursleys finally decided enough with the stain on the family.
But no one realized what had been a result of the boy leaving. The Blood Wards collapsing, if there really had been still intact. This wouldn't be realized until a couple of years later. And by then, Harrison Potter had been long gone and long-missing.