“Harry! Get up!” called his Aunt Petunia from outside his cupboard.
His cupboard? Harry scratched his forehead, searching his brain for memories. He remembered living somewhere else other than his cupboard…or did he? His brain throbbed harder. Harry tried to remember a time that he hadn’t lived in the musty old cupboard under the stairs, but he couldn’t remember anything other than the faint memory of Dudley’s second bedroom. Harry’s brain was suddenly on fire, and another memory, though it seemed fake, jumped into his brain.
”You have never lived anywhere other than your cupboard,” A sickening voice said in his mind. They were Harry thoughts, but the voice that said them sounded strangely familiar…
“Harry! I’m not going to call you again!”
Harry didn’t even bother to get out of bed. He flipped on a switch, and a lamp above his head flipped on dimly. He knew that Aunt Petunia would barge into his room and pull him out of bed. She’d been doing that for the past ten years or so anyway.
Ten years? again Harry’s brain argued against this fact. He wasn’t ten, he was…
Harry couldn’t even remember how old he was. All he was sure of that he wasn’t ten years old.
”You are ten years old.” The sickly voice in his head rasped. ”You live with your aunt and uncle in the cupboard under the stairs.”
Harry’s head began to throb. He pulled his blanket over his head and sighed. He wasn’t sure what had happened to him, and he wasn’t particularly anxious to find out.
“Harry?” For a moment, Aunt Petunia sounded a little worried. “Wake up!”
“I’m coming…” Harry replied wearily, dragging himself out of bed. He looked in the dirty mirror above his head. Harry stared, not because of his messy, scraggly appearance, but because he looked at least five years older than he remembered being last night. Last night…
What had he done last night? Harry searched his brain, ignoring the throbbing in his head. Harry remembered a flash of light, and a scream…
As soon as Harry had this thought, it died. He couldn’t remember even a wisp of it. Puzzled, and a little worried, Harry pulled a shirt over his head and climbed out of his cupboard.
He found himself staring Aunt Petunia right in the face. She scowled at him.
“Sss…Sorry,” he muttered, although he wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for.
“Never mind that,” she snapped, “Go fix the breakfast.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He sighed and trudged over to the kitchen, throwing a scowl at Aunt Petunia over his shoulder.
Harry wasn’t sure what he would find in the kitchen. All he knew was that he wanted some answers. He needed to know what had happened to him. A thought hit Harry like a train. He could try remembering again. Maybe, if he did that, the voice could give him some answers. Harry fought to remember so hard that his brain throbbed and his fist curled up into a ball.
He was in the middle of a graveyard. A man in a large cloak stood above him, glaring. Harry could see someone sprawled out on the ground, dead. He shivered. Where was he? What was happening…
Harry fought to keep the daydream going, but it faded away as quickly as it had come. He fought harder to keep it alive in his mind, but just like before, it died, and Harry only had wisps of it left in his memory.
“You have never been to a graveyard.” said the sickly voice.
“Wait!” Harry called aloud, “What’s happening to me?!”
The voice faded away, and Harry found himself fully awake, lying on the floor outside of the kitchen. He scrambled up and ran wearily into the kitchen, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily.
It seemed like it took a very long time for Harry to get into the kitchen, although it was less than thirty seconds away from his cupboard. He felt like he was floating. When he got to the kitchen, he was surprised to see that Dudley looked much different than Harry remembered. He too looked older than ten as well, and his muscles were considerably larger. Harry shuddered, hoping that Dudley had lost interest in using him as his punching bag. Unfortunately for Harry, the only open seat at the table was directly in between his two least favorite people: Uncle Vernon and Dudley. Sighing heavily, he plopped down on the wobbly chair, and stared at his bacon, hoping nobody would notice that he was still sweaty.
It took Harry less than thirty seconds after he sat down to remember what had just happened in the hallway. Instantly, the memory of the graveyard and the voice rushed back to him. He looked at his Aunt, Uncle, and cousin and realized that they were avoiding his gaze, although he didn’t know why. Harry cleared his throat, and Dudley shuddered as though he though Harry was mad and dangerous.
Seeing the looks that his relatives gave him, Harry immediately decided against telling them about his memory problems. There was no reason to make them think he was any more trouble than they already thought he was.
Harry was tempted to try remembering something else, but he pushed this though aside almost as soon as he thought it up. He head was throbbing hard enough without him trying to think up lost memories.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Harry said, getting up and walking out of the kitchen.
He could tell that Aunt Petunia was going to say something, but he ignored her.
When he got to his cupboard, instead of going inside, he bypassed it, and walked up to Dudley’s second bedroom, determined to find out why he’d suddenly thought it belonged to him. The door was locked. Harry tried with all his might to get it open. He pulled, he pushed, he jammed, and he even tried to kick the door down, but it didn’t budge. Harry sighed, and glared at the lock.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to think up another way to open the door. He heard a click as the lock gave way. Harry stared. The door had unlocked itself!
Harry hesitated, then went inside. Everything in the room was messy, and there was no sign of the usual crowd of Dudley’s junk that usually crowded the room. Instead, there was a trunk in the corner, an unmade bed by the wall, and an owl in a cage on the counter. An Owl?
Harry looked at the snowy white owl, wondering why on earth his aunt and uncle had left an owl locked up in the bedroom. The owl hooted, and looked at Harry with it’s yellow eyes. It seemed to be trying to say something to him. It seemed so familiar.
“You do not know this owl.” Said the terrible voice inside Harry’s head. ”You have never seen it before.”
Harry rubbed his head, which was throbbing. Why was this voice constantly tormenting him?
Dear Harry,
WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? Hermione and I have been worried sick. You haven’t responded to any of my fellytone, (There was a mark here that indicated that Ron had crossed out fellytone) telephone calls, and Pig hasn’t brought back any replies to my letters. Did you start looking for Horcruxes without us or something?
Please respond, we’re really worried about you.