Harry Potter and the Revolving Wall

What exactly is a Tube?

Nearly ten years, come and gone, and number four Privet Drive appeared quite untouched. The garden beds were practically manicured, the windows gleamed as the sun lazily rose to the trill of the park birds. It was still obnoxiously early of course, unless you were Mr. Watts who was getting into his sleek car already. 

From the distance Harry could still see his anger at simply having to be awake. Vernon, oddly enough for a man so angry to begin with, was never mad about work like Mr. Watts. He seemed blissfully happy if anything- it seemed- for those two seconds before he opens the front door home again, and catches an unfortunate glimpse of Harry.

But Mr. Watts was not why Harry was up like the sun was, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were likely still sleeping. It was a Saturday, and Uncle Vernon had off work (as he was director, lucky him, unlucky Harry). It was early-June, and Harry was currently in the park down the road, right at the corner of Wisteria Walk and Privet Drive. Harry is a fast runner, you see, and his cousin was not. Harry Hunting, which was Dudley's and Dudley's gang's favorite pastime, was getting increasingly challenging. The young Dursley had taken after his father, and in Harry's words, looked like a great, giant lard.

Harry had not woken that morning to the familiar rattle of his Aunt's fist against his cupboard door, or her shrill voice. He woke to seemingly nothing but a prickling on the back of his neck. It was a lucky wake up call because not even a second later he heard the rough whisper of Piers Polkiss, one of Dudley's dullest companions. He was a rat faced, cruel boy. He had malice etched in his cheeks, Harry personally knew.

"Wait till Dudley's got back. Freakshow won't know what hit him." This was met with some soft snickers. Harry's cramped little stomach dropped. It was Harry Hunting, and he couldn't run. He'd managed a very successful past schoolyear, in that he flew completely under the radar (minus the sink incident), and become singularly adept at evading Dudley's forces of evil.

He hadn't been caught since, at the very last, early January. He had got a right scare from some upper years however, probably some people that Dudley would look up to. They didn't even know him. Maybe they could just tell, tell that he was a freakshow. Maybe they had heard the stories from their siblings. Harry Potter was not well loved in this community, that was for certain.

"In the kitchen drawer." Harry's fear swelled until it felt like he was a balloon about to burst. That was Dudley's voice. His mind raced to wake up. He must've got the key for the cupboard, ready to mash him to a pulp before Aunt Petunia's customary morning unlocking of Harry's cell. He didn't want to be beat up, Harry thought. He really really didn't want to be ripped apart by these cruel idiots and then- Harry despaired- make the source of his misery breakfast. The fear and anger balloon popped, and Harry violently jerked himself up in embarrassing terror that blinded him to a simple fact: he lived in a cupboard.

His little skull made a harsh cracking sound against the sloped roof, immensely painful, worse than when Aunt Petunia got a lucky swipe in with the cast iron pan, and the terror increased tenfold in response to the pain. Harry was experiencing a warranted response to the invasion of his safe (cell) cupboard, and his heart was beating in tandem with the excruciating, blackout-worthy pain in his head. And then, as Dudley opened the cupboard with his sweaty palm clenching the key excitedly, he was surprised to find it completely empty.

"Huh," he said. The boys looked at each other awkwardly.

The whole Dursley home was silent, there seemed to be only a bird chirping in the garden out front.

"Well the Jenkin kid's got new sneakers," Piers offered. "Off Wisteria." Dudley scrunched up his face real hard. If Harry was there to see he would've said he looked like a pig. Or thought it, which would be the safer option.