Chapter 1 Cupboard Shadows
The morning light that managed to creep through the narrow vent slits of Privet Drive was thin and grudging, the pale gray of early summer that promised nothing but another long, bruising day. Inside Number 4, beneath the staircase, the cupboard under the stairs was still wrapped in near-total darkness.
A small boy lay curled on the thin, musty mattress that barely qualified as bedding. His breathing was shallow, uneven. Every few seconds a low, involuntary whimper escaped his cracked lips. The bruises that mottled his skin—deep purple blooming across ribs, black fingerprints circling thin wrists, a fresh split along his left cheekbone—were still tender and hot. Last night had been worse than usual.
Vernon Dursley had come home from the drill company in a black mood, the kind that always ended with knuckles and bellowing. Harry—Hadrian, though no one here ever called him that—had dropped a single plate while washing up. One plate. The crash had been loud enough to make Petunia shriek. Vernon had dragged him by the arm into the cupboard, slammed the door, and let rage do the rest. Fists. Belt buckle. The back of a meaty hand. Harry had stopped counting after the fifth blow. He'd only curled tighter and waited for sleep to take the pain away.
He should have been used to it by now. He wasn't.
Six years and some months had passed since the blanket-wrapped bundle had been left on this very doorstep. Six years of locked doors, locked lips, locked dreams. Six years of remembering every slap, every shout, every time the cupboard door clicked shut and the bolt slid home. He remembered the first time Petunia had struck him—two and a half years old, tiny hands raised in instinctive defense, not understanding why the woman who looked so much like the blurry memory of warmth he couldn't quite grasp was screaming and hitting him over a spilled cup of tea he hadn't even touched.
From there it had only grown.
By three and a half he was scrubbing floors, washing dishes, hauling laundry baskets twice his size up and down stairs while Dudley watched cartoons and ate chocolate. If the washing-up wasn't perfect, if the bacon wasn't crisp enough, if Dudley complained that "the freak" had looked at him funny—punishment followed. Always.
Hadrian opened his eyes.
The pain was immediate, a dull roar that lived under his skin. He swallowed a groan, forced himself to sit up. The movement pulled at cracked ribs and made his vision swim for a second. He waited it out, breathing through his nose.
Then he moved.
He always moved. Because if the chores weren't finished before the house woke, they'd find new reasons to hurt him. And they were very creative with reasons.
He pushed the cupboard door open just enough to slip through. The hallway was silent except for the faint tick of the grandfather clock and Dudley's distant snores. Hadrian padded barefoot to the kitchen, steps light, practiced. He knew which floorboards creaked and avoided them without thinking.
In the hallway mirror he paused—only for a second.
The reflection that stared back was small, sharp, almost ghostly.
Pale skin stretched tight over bones that showed too clearly. Midnight-black hair fell in wild, uneven strands across his forehead. And the eyes—sharp, dark emerald, unnaturally bright even in the dim light. They looked older than the rest of him. Always had.
He was short. Thin. Too thin. His arms were sticks wrapped in bruised skin, his collarbones stark ridges beneath his frayed oversized shirt. He knew other children his age didn't look like this. He'd seen them at the park, round-cheeked, laughing, chasing each other. He'd seen how much food they ate. How much space they took up without apology.
Here, food was a weapon. Dudley got seconds. Harry got scraps—if he was lucky. Most days he lived on whatever burned bits stuck to the bottom of pans or the ends of bread loaves Petunia deemed "too stale" for her precious son.
He sighed—a small, inward sound—and turned to the fridge.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast. Coffee for Vernon. Tea for Petunia. Sausages and beans for Dudley. The list ran through his head like a prayer he didn't believe in. He moved mechanically, cracking eggs, laying strips of bacon in the pan, setting the kettle. Every motion hurt. Every motion was necessary.
As the bacon began to sizzle and the smell of fat filled the air, his mind drifted—away from the pain, away from the house.
Books.
They were the only thing that belonged to him.
Whenever he finished chores early, whenever the Dursleys were out or distracted, he stole moments in the cupboard or the garden shed or behind the sofa. He read anything he could get his hands on—stolen library books, Dudley's discarded school texts, even Vernon's old car manuals. Science fascinated him most. Electricity. Circuits. Computers. And above all—space.
Stars. Planets. Black holes. Nebulae. The idea that there were places so far away no human could ever touch them, yet they still burned, still spun, still existed whether anyone saw them or not… that thought made the cupboard feel smaller. Less suffocating.
He wanted to know how they worked. He wanted to know why they burned.
He wanted—though he would never have admitted it aloud—to be somewhere else.
A nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind. It had been there for almost a month now. Not a thought exactly. More like… pressure. A certainty that something was coming. Something big. Something that would change everything.
He tried to ignore it. He always tried to ignore it.
The kettle whistled.
Hadrian flinched at the sound, then moved quickly to lift it off the burner before it could wake anyone. He poured water into the teapot, set the bacon on a plate, arranged everything on the tray the way Petunia liked—exactly the way Petunia liked.
He carried the tray to the dining table, set it down silently.
Then he retreated to the cupboard again.
He left the door open a crack. Just enough to hear when they woke. Just enough to be ready.
Inside the narrow dark, he sat on the mattress, pulled his knees to his chest, and let himself breathe.
The bruises throbbed. The ribs ached. The hunger gnawed.
But beneath all of it—quiet, steady, waiting—was that other feeling.
Something was coming.
And for the first time in six long years, Hadrian Potter felt the smallest flicker of something dangerously close to hope.
He didn't know what it was. He didn't know when.
But it was close.
And the cupboard suddenly felt far too small to contain it.