When I was a small boy I was deathly afraid of the dark, fearful of what lurked beneath my bed or behind the closet door. I soon realized that it wasn’t the dark I should fear but the light. For in the light lived the most insidious creatures - unimaginable beasts that no amount of blankets tossed over the head could ward off, or that silent prayers and desperate wishes would deny. Monster is the word I use to describe them, to describe Him.

I grew up in fairly normal surroundings, if you consider squalor the norm. Not the type indicative of poverty, mind you, but of neglect. We lived in a two story home. It looked much larger than it actually was. The first floor remained hidden behind a trio of overgrown bushes that never quite lost their needles. They eclipsed from view the world that lay beyond our threshold and made it impossible for any one of us to see out. More importantly, no one could see in. Three vacant windows stared out onto the street from up above. They were flanked by brown, wooden shingles that splintered and cracked from years of exposure to inclement weather. The lamp post near the front walk lay buried beneath brush that stood as high. A thicket of jetting branches snaked up the pole and encapsulated the lantern within its gnarled claws. It hadn’t worked in years. A dead tree stood in the front yard. Knotted. Twisted. It begged for a raven to come perch itself upon one of its barren limbs.

Broken patches of cement led up to an entryway where our dog used to bark at those with enough nerve to pass by. I had found him in a ravine near our home lapping up filthy water from a mud puddle. He was a mangy old mutt with matted hair, cast out by its owner – and society – for what I am sure they presumed was a better make and model. I took to him instantly.

He followed me home. I knew better than to invite him in. To expect that he would be welcomed was foolish. And yet he stayed. Day after day, I would find him sitting by the door waiting for me. The Monster noticed him too.

“Whose dog is that anyway?� He spat. “And what does he mean by hanging around all day like that?�

He’d try to run the dog off; it would flee, only to return again in the evening where it would curl itself up beneath the rusted glider on the front stoop and await a stolen morsel from my fingertips. One day a solicitor came to the door. He was a rather stout man with slicked back hair that sat impenetrably upon his pumpkin shaped head. Dull, gray eyes stared out from behind a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles that weighed upon his nose. The smile that escaped his thin lips revealed a sizable set of square teeth. They longed for a good brushing.

“Lovely day, idinit?� he greeted, wiping the sweat from his brow with a yellowing handkerchief that he produced from his back pocket.

The Monster was not amused.

Perhaps sensing the brevity of their encounter, the man hastily pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose and launched into his spiel – the details of which I can no longer recall. It did not matter; within two words he was cut off. The Monster railed at him venomously. His accusatory stare cut into the man much deeper than any one of the expletives that spewed forth rapidly from His mouth. The man was a nuisance. How dare he waste the Monster’s precious time! But, I must give foolish credit where credit is due. The man, surprisingly, held his own. He refused to relinquish the doorstep in lieu of a successful pitch; an almost desperate glimmer of hope lingered in his eyes. The Monster grew even more agitated, and without warning, that dog – the one that had curled itself up beneath the glider – jumped out with ferocity worthy of a lion. It gave a low, vicious growl and latched itself firmly onto the man’s pant leg. With one tear of cheap fabric, the man fled from the house. From that day forth the dog lived inside with us. He had proven himself useful.

I named him Salvare, Latin for Savior… for that is what he was to me. We were inseparable, and for a while life with the Monster was at least tolerable. But, only for a short while. The dog quickly learned that his usefulness to the Monster did not come without a price. To stray from what was expected yielded a cruelty beyond reason. Intent did not matter. Purposeful or accidental, any show of “defiance� against Him was met with swift, unapologetic punishment: a glass of liquor knocked over by an enthusiastic tail, hair shed upon His favorite pair of trousers, defecation made by a sick dog on the living room floor. I can no longer count the number of beatings Salvare sustained at the hands of the Monster, but one thing I will never forget is the pitying, low whine of that dog in pain as it limped its way over to rest its head in my lap. And that was only what He did to the dog.

He wasn’t a large man, but to me He was larger than life, hot-tempered with a hooked nose that I regrettably see every time I look in the mirror. I was a disappointment to Him from the very beginning. Born frail and underweight, I was an annoyance that had kept my mother in labor far longer than He deemed necessary - the runt of the litter, so to speak, with an endless need to be coddled and appeased. I simply required too much of their time.

Selfish and egocentric, He thrived on control. His method was quite simple really - slow and deliberate. First, He broke our will. For me, that meant stifling my enthusiasm. I was an eager student early on. I craved knowledge, devouring as much of it as I could. After lessons, I would rush home to share what I learned. But such zest was not to be appreciated, nor encouraged there. I was greeted at the door, too many times, by His scowling glare, a finger held firmly to His lips, shushing me so as not to interrupt His favorite program or beloved hobby – for they were always far more important. In those rare moments when I was allowed to speak, He wasted no time in undermining what I said. It grew pointless to even open my mouth, which I guess in the end was the point. Nothing I said mattered, and nothing I did was ever good enough.

I remember once being told to tidy my room. Upon completing the task, I escaped the confines of our home and found a quiet spot in that ravine where I found Salvare. There, I immersed myself in a book until dusk. No longer able to see the words, I gathered up my things and returned home. I spoke to no one, but went straight to my room; what I found there amazes me still. The room was in complete disarray. Every drawer was pulled out and its contents scattered. The bed lay stripped of its sheets. Perhaps the most appalling sight was the bookshelf that sat in the corner of the room. It was on its side, as though it had been kicked over. Every book was carelessly discarded from its shelves. Torn pages maliciously ripped from their bindings littered the floor. The imprint of a filthy, old boot stained many of them. Jackets belonging to cherished favorites remained tattered or missing from their hard covers. It was enough to make my stomach turn. I quickly stooped over to rescue them, to salvage what I could. And then I heard Him.

“It wasn’t done properly the first time,� He spoke from behind, a slight lilt to His voice. “Do it again.�

I felt my blood boil inside of me. My hands shook violently and the pages gripped within them fell like dead weight at my feet. A deep, unrelenting rage rose dangerously to the surface. I clenched my fists; my fingernails gouged deeply into the palms of my hands. I wanted to bash Him! Before I could think better of it, I spun on my heels and darted after the Monster. We collided on the stairs and toppled together to the bottom. Blinded by fury, I punched and kicked at Him, but I was too weak. He grabbed me by the throat and pinned me into a corner, beating His fist into me. The taste of blood filled my mouth.

I heard Salvare at my feet. He gave a deep, throaty growl of warning. Like a rabid animal, he attacked the Monster. The vice on my neck loosened momentarily as He kicked at the dog. But Salvare was not to be deterred. I heard the sound of his teeth sink into the Monster’s leg. He bellowed in agonizing pain, and releasing His grip on me, chased after the dog. My body slid down the wall just as my mother, returning from the market, entered through the front door.

“Tobias!� she shrieked, dropping her bag of groceries. "What on earth..."

But she was cut off. The dog, having done its damage, ran for the open door. The Monster hobbled after Salvare, dragging His bloodied leg behind Him. He shouted for my mother to close the door, but the dog was quicker. Into the night escaped Salvare, never to return. He abandoned me – as all saviors eventually do. But, oh how I envied him! I sat crying in the corner. The Monster shouted at my cowering mother. And for the next week, I remained locked in the basement.

It was not nearly as bad as you think. Cold, dark and damp – I embraced it. I welcomed the seclusion that such an environment often breeds; hence my preference for the dungeon classrooms at Hogwarts. It is amazing the clarity one finds in the dark, where all the answers seem so clear and yet the light always has way of spoiling it. I heard them, of course; the weight of their presence evident on the creaking rafters above my head. It was always the same: the bark of a command, a poor woman’s inability to please and the painful sound of an open palm striking her across the face. Sometimes a scuffle ensued. Most times, sadly, it did not. I say that because the silence in which my mother often accepted those beatings was deafening. I neither know, nor pretend to understand, what possessed her to allow them. Was it fear? Apathy? A dismal sense of her own self-worth? I asked her once why she stayed. Her answer puzzles me still.

“Love,� is all she said.

What love is this? Surely, not the kind that men have died for or religions have built their very existence upon.

I was released from the basement and ordered straight upstairs, for there was still the matter of my bedroom to address. In silence, I tidied the room again. The beatings of course continued - their brutality dependent upon such arcane details as the weather, the time of day, or the percentage of alcohol in His liquor. In between the beatings, I simply ceased to exist. Until one day something happened that made it no longer possible for Him to ignore me.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…

Yes… things were about to get very interesting, indeed!




Footnote:

“We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…� ** based off of page 51 Sorcerer’s Stone