It’s been three very long days since the figure huddled in the corner of the room had been brought in. It had also been that long since he had anything to eat or clean to drink. The figure occasionally drank from a muddy, stank water puddle on the floor of the cell. It was none other than a boy; maybe six years old and rather small for his age. His usually bright emerald green eyes are now a dull forest green. A pair of oval shaped glasses sits, perched on his nose.
He didn’t understand what was going on. One minute he was sitting in the kitchen with his Aunt, Uncle and cousin. Then the next he was being shoved roughly into this cell. He cried for the first few days before his throat began to show signs of rawness. He then gave up. No one was coming anyways. So why bother?
The boy looks around the dark, cold cell and shivers. He is wearing a pair of grey sweat pants, a black tee-shirt and a pair of ragged tennis shoes. All of the clothing are hand me downs from Dudley who out grew them. They were also ten times to big for the small boy. The pants had a large hole in the leg and the shirt was ripped at the collar. The shoes had several holes throughout them. His black hair is mattered to his head from a mixture of blood and dirt. He had a gash of the side of his head about the size of a silver dollar.
He makes several attempts to stand. He finally managed to get to his feet on his finally attempt. But he was swaying dangerously. He let out a yelp of pain as he stepped down on his right foot. He had to lean against the wall for support so he didn’t fall. The cell was almost completely pitch black except for several streams of dimmed light that was filtering through the slates of the large wooden door that guarded the cell. He manages to makes his way over to the door. “H..Hello?” He stammers out. Maybe someone would hear him this time. He licks his badly cracked lips. He felt so weak. The lack of food and proper water was starting to affect him. And the gash would suggest that he had a mild concussion.
He slowly makes his way into the small beams of light. He holds his hand up and lets the light shine on it. It was filthy and he imagined that his other hand, no his whole body, looked like it. He slowly set himself down and pulls his pant leg up. He carefully slips his shoe off his right foot. He hisses in pain then beginnings to survey the damage. His foot was dark purple and swollen. It looked horrible. He gives a little whimper before he slips his other shoe off. He just sits there for a while staring off into the darkness.
He was not a stupid boy. He knew that his family didn’t care for him. They were always saying how he was strange and abnormal. His Uncle even told him once that his parents were freeloaders. He didn’t know what meant but it sounded bad. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that he was an unwanted addition to the Dursley family; they practically told him that every single day of his young life. But he never once tried to get them to accept him. He just did what he was told; which was everything. He cooked his Aunt, Uncle and whale of a cousin breakfast, lunch and dinner every day since he could reach the stove. He mowed the lawn on the days that the weatherman told everyone to stay inside. His bed was the cupboard under the stairs, which used to be an old supply cupboard until he arrived.
He was five when he asked the dreaded question; the one that got him a months’ worth of punishment. It had happened one night at dinner, which consisted of a salad. It just slipped out. What happened to my parents? His Uncle had turned an ugly shade of purple before hauling the boy away from the dinner table and throwing him in to the cupboard and slamming the door. His Uncle only stayed long enough to push the small vent open and hiss “Your parents were killed in a car accident. That’s why we got stuck with you, boy!” The vent was snapped shut and he didn’t see the light of day for an entire week. They had occasionally slid in a glass of water and a small piece of stale bread; they couldn’t let him die, the neighbors would ask questions. So after the week was over, he never asked about his parents again.
He lets out a small sigh and curls up on his side with his back to the large door. Even though it had been only three days to the small child it felt longer. He slowly closed his eyes. Not hearing the door being pulled open or seeing the people that began to filter in. He didn’t even notice when one of the men with blonde hair had picked him up. He was too tired to even care. All he wanted to do was sleep. And that is exactly what he did.