Harry was lying in his cupboard despondently.
He couldn't stop thinking about the day.
There was nothing special about the day. If it hadn't been about that card, he'd hardly have remembered it.
Harry felt a fresh wave of anger hit at the memory of how his favourite teacher had destroyed his card to his mother. She had ruined his entire day!
It started normally enough. He had woken up earlier than normal as his aunt was teaching him how to cook. Harry liked cooking, though he wished he could have a rasher of bacon and those eggs. They smelled so good!
He felt he had done very well, just burnt two of the tomatoes. Aunt Petunia might even allow him to make breakfast alone the next week, as she had promised. See, he was a big boy! Almost as big as Dudley, who had just turned seven. And Dudley still couldn't even tie his shoelaces!
Harry's stomach dropped at remembering how it had all gone downhill after that. He had taken too long to make breakfast, so he couldn't eat. By the time he'd got ready, Uncle Vernon and Dudley had already left and Harry had had to walk to school.
The school was just a street away, and Harry usually preferred it to the car. No one was there to pinch and tease him on the roads! Still, it was nearly winter and the wind burned his nose and numbed his hands.
Harry usually liked art class, because that was the only class Dudley didn't care if the teacher praised Harry in.
He had enjoyed it at first, too. He'd made a beautiful card for his mother like everyone else, but when he'd shown it to Miss. Rowflen, she'd looked at him disapprovingly and said that he should have made one for his aunt to show how grateful he was.
Harry had responded that he didn't like her, and Harry's teacher had sent a fierce glare his way and trown the card in the bin, and Harry had almost burst into tears.
Dudley's friends, of course, couldn't let that go. Piers had said he better respect his friend's mother 'or else'.
Harry wished he knew what 'or else' meant. Uncle Vernon said that all the time, but each time it meant something different.
Harry made a card Aunt Petunia, then. He wouldn't have minded if she had liked it, but she had half-glanced at it and thrown it away with a look of disgust.
Harry wished he still had the card he had made for his mother, though. He'd have hung it up with all the others.
Harry sat up straight in excitement. He could make one now!
Taking the schoolbag from his feet, he took out his broken crayons. After digging for a few minutes, Harry finally conceded that he couldn't find paper that he could use.
He was just about to give up when he saw the scrunched-up paper at the bottom of his bag. He took it out and flattened it the best he could. In the dim light coming from the grate overhead, Harry could make it out.
He remembered now. It was a spelling quiz that Harry had worked very hard for. It had long words that made Harry feel so- sophisticated. He couldn't help but do well in it, and he was awarded for his effort with a 10/10 and a smiley face.
Once he'd got it, however, he had panicked. Immediately scrunching it up as small as it could get, he'd hidden it at the very bottom of his bag and hoped Aunt Petunia wouldn't look through it as she sometimes did.
Turing it over, Harry settled down cross-legged to make his card. Unfortunately, he found that he didn't feel like drawing anything.
He didn't dare try, because whenever he drew something when he felt that way, it never came out good. Harry usually didn't mind, but he didn't have any extra paper today.
He was glumly thinking that his mother would never get anything from him when he had an idea. He could write her a letter!
Hadn't Mr. Machilen, his English teacher, said that a letter was an open conversation? He could really talk to his mother!
This time when he put his crayons to the paper, loads of ideas crowded in his mind. So much so that in his haste to get them all out, his letters crowded so that they were running into each other.
Words had always come easily to Harry. It was a source of comfort to him, to say things people wouldn't catch until later, and by then it'd be too late to scold him.
Dear Mummy,
I think my favourite teacher hates me. Why else would she tell me to be grateful to Aunt Petunia when she calls me bad and locks me in my cupboard? Am I really that bad, Mummy?
See, I made a beautiful card for you. It had flowers and a tree and you and Daddy and me, and it had a BIG house! And I used so many colours for it!
The House was called 'The Potter House' because only we were allowed to live there, see?
But Miss Rowflen hated it and she threw it out! She was very mean, Mummy! And she says you shouldn't be mean!
She teared it too, or I would have taken it out of the dustbin. It's not too yucky because there's only papers in it. The kitchen dustbin is yucky and makes everything smell. My schoolbag smelled for AGES when Dudley threw it in there and I had to get it out. Aunt Petunia didn't even help me clean it!
I wish you were here. You would have helped me clean it, even if Aunt Petunia says that you were a lazy bum.
Why did you leave me here, Mummy? Why did you have to be drunk and lazy and careless? Why didn't you care about me? My history teacher says only people who don't care about children are drunk.
Was I bad when I was small too? I promise I'll try to be good! I have been trying, I really am! Will you come back and love me again, Mummy? I promise I'll even make a proper card for Aunt Petunia if you say so! Will you please come back and bring Daddy too?
I made a card for Aunt Petunia too, but she didn't even look at it! She threw it away as if it was covered in dog poo. She threw it in the kitchen bin so I couldn't take it out. I didn't want to, anyway.
That's why I'm writing you a letter, see? You will keep it, won't you, Mummy? You won't throw it away like Miss Rowflen and Aunt Petunia, will you? Please don't throw it away!
If you don't like it, I'll write you another one! I'll write to you lots and lots, so we can talk. You want to talk to me, right Mummy? I miss you lots and lots!
With lots of love,
Harry
At the end, Harry's hands hurt too much to continue writing, so he signed his letter like Mr. Machilen says to. Putting his crayons down, Harry felt a sudden wave of frustration. Picking up the paper angrily, he crumpled it in his fist.
A moment later he opened it again, feeling guilty. He smoothed it and folded it neatly, vowing to have it posted the next day. Hiding it behind his pillow, Harry finally managed to fall asleep.
…
Harry woke up feeling very excited. His only thought was on his letter. Would his mother be able to answer him back?
On second thought, Harry concluded that she probably wouldn't. After all, she was dead, which meant that Harry couldn't go to her. Harry hoped she would stop being dead soon.
As he waited for Aunt Petunia to call him to make breakfast, he pulled the letter out and read it again.
Self-doubt hit him then. What if his mother actually didn't want to hear from him? What if she got annoyed at Harry's questions? Harry had been quite rude too. Maybe he should write it again?
Before he could think too much about it, he heard footsteps going down the stairs. Hiding the letter again quickly, he laid back down and pretended to be asleep.
He needn't have bothered. Aunt Petunia only rapped smartly on the door, shouting at him to get up, then left him at it.
Harry took his time; he knew he was never quick in the mornings, no matter how angry it made his Aunt.
He was so distracted as he made breakfast that Aunt Petunia pushed him away and told him to get ready, cooking it herself. Harry knew there would be repercussions later, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He had a plan. A very basic plan, but still — he had one.
He knew there was a post box on the way to school, so all he had to do was to make sure that Uncle Vernon and Dudley left without him.
He had initially planned to take ages making breakfast, but that was thrown out the window. As he sat on the toilet, thinking what he could do, Dudley called impatiently through the door.
Harry ignored him, an idea forming slowly in his mind. What if he pretended to be sick? He could stay in the bathroom until it was too late!
A moment later he deflated. If Aunt Petunia truly thought he was sick, he wouldn't be allowed to go to school. The backlash to their reputation from the teachers would be too much, his Aunt would say.
Then he got it! Maybe he had co- con- conspitation. Dudley had it all the time!
Now that he had a plan, Harry relaxed, almost falling asleep. No-one came to bother him. His legs were nearly numb when he thought it had been long enough.
When he got out, Aunt Petunia was watching TV in the living room with a cup of tea in her hand. When she saw him, she jumped so hard her cup nearly upset all over the carpet.
"What are you doing here?" Aunt Petunia shrieked, a sour look coming on her face.
Harry hesitated. What was that Dudley always said?
"My tummy was sore, Aunt Petunia," he said at last, holding his breath.
Aunt Petunia pursed her lips. "You'll have to walk, then. Your Uncle has already left. And don't you dare skip school!"
Hardly believing his luck, Harry fetched his school bag and his letter and ran out the door.
Once he could no longer see No 4, Harry slowed down, unfolding the letter again, reading it through.
It was still rude, and Harry was still unsure, but Harry couldn't see what he could do about it. Even if there was time, Harry had no paper to rewrite it. He also didn't know how he could make it better, even if he had.
He was already late for school, and if it took too long to reach there, the Headmaster would call Uncle Vernon.
Harry finally decided that it couldn't be helped.
Before he knew it, he had reached the post box. Extending a trembling arm with the letter, he put it in quickly, then spun around and sprinted away. He was afraid that if he stayed there a moment longer, he'd try and take it out again.
A few minutes later, he slowed down to a walk, panting. Slowly, his lips curved into a smile and he laughed gleefully. It felt like he'd just put down something heavy that he'd been carrying all day. Even if his Mummy didn't reply, Harry was glad he had sent that letter. Now his Mummy knew that he loved her.
The End