Darkness clung to me as I awoke, my body a patchwork of aches, my mind a haze of fragmented thoughts. Where was I? My memories were a chaotic flicker—lines of code scrolling on a screen, the hum of a computer, vague scenes from movies—but no anchor to who I was or how I'd ended up here. It was as if my personal life had been erased, leaving only scattered knowledge, like puzzle pieces without a picture.
I shifted, my elbow scraping against a damp, splintered surface. My hands—wait, these weren't my hands. They were small, childlike, nails encrusted with grime. Panic surged, a cold wave tightening my chest. What was happening? I sat up, my head thudding against a low, slanted ceiling. Wincing, I rubbed the spot and peered into the gloom. I was in a cupboard under a staircase, its walls so close I could touch both sides without stretching. The air was heavy with the musty stench of old coats dangling above, their tattered hems grazing my face. In the corner, a heap of broken toys—a headless action figure, a cracked spinning top—lay discarded. My bed was a thin mattress, its fabric stained with dark, unidentifiable splotches, sagging under my slight weight. A sliver of light seeped through the slightly ajar door, illuminating dust motes that swirled like restless spirits.
A torrent of memories crashed into me, not mine but vivid and searing. A boy, frail and trembling, his stomach hollow from hunger. Harry Potter. Images of neglect and cruelty flooded my mind: locked doors, shouted insults, days without food. Harry was dead, his body wasted away under the Dursleys' cruelty. I was in his body now, a stranger in a child's frame, piecing together a grim reality. This was the world of Harry Potter, but not the one I vaguely recalled from movies. In those, Harry endured neglect but survived to reach a magical school. Here, he hadn't. And now, I was here, trapped in a nightmare with no clear path forward.
I had to be cautious. One misstep, and I could share Harry's fate. I needed to survive, to understand how this world differed from the story I knew.
The cupboard door creaked open, revealing Petunia Dursley's sharp, angular face. Her thin lips curled in disdain, her pale eyes glinting with contempt and a flicker of unease, as if she feared I might do something unnatural. Her dark hair was scraped into a severe bun, accentuating her gaunt cheekbones, and her apron was immaculate, a testament to her obsession with order. She stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the hallway's harsh light, a vulture sizing up its prey.
"You're still alive," she said, her voice sharp as a blade. "Thought you might've spared us the trouble and died. Pity. Get up. You've got work to do, and you haven't earned your keep."
I nodded, my throat tight, still reeling from Harry's memories and my own disjointed knowledge. Crawling out, I felt a wave of dizziness, my vision blurring at the edges. WhenMatrix had Harry last eaten? Days, perhaps. My stomach clenched with a sharp, gnawing pain, and my limbs trembled, as if they might collapse under my meager weight. The hallway's polished floor gleamed under my bare feet, cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the cupboard's filth.
The Dursleys' home was a monument to artificial perfection, its cleanliness a mockery of my existence. The living room was a shrine to suburban ideals: plush armchairs upholstered in garish floral patterns, their cushions fluffed to precision; a polished coffee table holding neatly stacked magazines touting gardening tips; a mantel lined with family photos, all featuring Vernon, Petunia, and their son Dudley—smiling, carefree, with no trace of Harry. The kitchen was clinical, its countertops gleaming under fluorescent lights, utensils aligned like surgical tools, the air faintly scented with lemon cleaner. Yet I, the unwanted stain, was confined to a cupboard, my presence a blight on their pristine world.
Petunia thrust a crumpled list into my hands, her fingers recoiling as if my touch were contagious. "Clean the kitchen, living room, and bathrooms. Then the garden. No food until it's perfect. Don't test me."
I swallowed hard, Harry's memories warning me that "perfect" was an impossible standard. Mistakes meant punishment—Vernon's heavy hand, Petunia's venomous tongue, or days locked in the cupboard with nothing but hunger. Those memories were vivid: the sting of a slap, Vernon's bellows shaking the walls, the endless ache of an empty stomach that had finally killed Harry.
I knelt on the kitchen floor, scrubbing with a rag that reeked of mildew. The tiles were cold against my knees, each scrub sending a jolt of pain through my malnourished frame. My hands, small and raw, struggled to grip the rag, trembling with exhaustion. Hunger clouded my thoughts, making every movement a battle. My mind, trained to solve problems as a programmer, raced to find order in chaos. I was used to debugging code, breaking problems into steps. This was different, a life-or-death puzzle, but I could approach it the same way. Step one: survive. Step two: secure food. Step three: identify how this world differed from the movies.
The movies—fragments surfaced, hazy but useful. Harry Potter, a boy wizard, went to Hogwarts at 11, fought a dark lord, saved the world. But here, Harry was dead at 6, starved by his relatives. The Dursleys were cruel in the films, but not lethal. This reality was darker, its rules unknown. I needed to observe, to catalog every difference, to build a strategy for survival until I could escape to that magical world—if it even existed here.
Petunia's voice cut through my thoughts. "You missed a spot!" she snapped, pointing to a smudge so faint it might have been a trick of the light. "Do it again, or you'll regret it."
I scrubbed harder, my arms burning, my vision spotting with black. I couldn't afford to falter. No food meant no strength, and no strength meant death. Harry's memories confirmed it: days without a crumb, his body wasting away until it gave out. I wouldn't let that happen to me.
Hours dragged on as I finished the kitchen and moved to the living room. Dusting the mantel, I avoided the family photos, their smiling faces a cruel contrast to my reality. The vacuum's roar drowned out Dudley's tantrums, but not Petunia's criticisms. "The cushions aren't straight!" she barked, her finger jabbing at a barely misaligned pillow. I adjusted it, biting back a retort. My programmer's mind noted her patterns: she checked every task obsessively, her need for control a potential weakness. If I could anticipate her demands, I might carve out small advantages—extra time, a chance to rest.
Vernon lounged in an armchair, his bulk spilling over the edges, his face flushed as he muttered at a newspaper headline about tax hikes. His mustache quivered with each grunt, his small eyes flicking to me with disgust before returning to the page. Dudley, barely three, waddled about, his chubby hands clutching a toy car he hurled at the floor, demanding his mother's attention with a shrill whine. Their dynamics were variables in my equation: Petunia's control, Vernon's indifference, Dudley's entitlement. I'd learn their routines, find gaps in their vigilance.
In the bathrooms, the acrid scent of bleach stung my nose, making me gag. I scrubbed tiles until my fingers bled, the red smears mixing with the cleaning solution. My body screamed for rest, but I pushed through, driven by the promise of food, however meager. Harry's memories whispered of times when even that was withheld, punishment for imagined slights.
Outside, the garden offered a fleeting respite. The air was crisp, scented with freshly cut grass, but the labor was brutal. I weeded flowerbeds, my hands sinking into damp, cold soil, and watered roses that mocked me with their vibrant blooms. Trimming hedges was the worst, my arms shaking as I wielded heavy shears, each snip a test of endurance. The sun climbed higher, its heat intensifying my dizziness, and I stumbled, catching myself against a fence post, its splintered wood biting into my palm.
Evening fell, and I stood before Petunia, my body trembling, my clothes soaked with sweat and dirt. She inspected my work with a sneer, her eyes scanning for flaws. "The hedges are uneven," she declared, pointing to a barely perceptible dip. "Do them again."
I wanted to scream, to hurl the shears at her, but Harry's memories held me back. Defiance meant pain, maybe a beating from Vernon or days without food. My mental tick against disrespect flared, a hot spark in my chest, but I suppressed it. Anger was a luxury I couldn't afford. Strategy was my weapon. Silently, I redid the hedges, my hands blistered, my vision blurring with exhaustion. Finally, she gave a grudging nod. "It'll do. Kitchen. Now."
In the kitchen, a small plate awaited: a crust of stale bread, its edges curling like parchment, and a glass of tepid water. It was an insult to sustenance, but I ate slowly, savoring each crumb, letting the water soothe my parched throat. I sat on the floor, too exhausted to stand, the cold tiles a small comfort against my burning skin. The pantry door, locked with a heavy padlock, taunted me. I'd need to find a way in, perhaps when Petunia was distracted by Dudley's demands.
Back in the cupboard, the door shut with a finality that echoed Harry's memories. I curled up on the mattress, its lumps digging into my back, and let my mind wander. I was a programmer, a problem-solver. This was a system to debug, a challenge to overcome. The movies offered clues—Hogwarts at 11, a world of magic—but this reality was different. Harry's death was proof. I needed to survive five years, to reach that magical world, if it existed. Until then, I'd watch the Dursleys, learn their weaknesses, and build a plan.
Vernon's voice rumbled through the wall, complaining about a coworker, while Dudley's wails pierced the air. I cataloged their behaviors: Petunia's obsessive control, Vernon's volatile temper, Dudley's spoiled demands. Each was a piece to maneuver. If I became indispensable, they might ease their cruelty, if only slightly. Or I could exploit their distractions—Dudley's tantrums, Vernon's rants—to sneak food or rest.
As sleep tugged at me, I thought of my past life. I couldn't recall my family's faces, but their absence was a hollow ache. I'd been a programmer in India, my days filled with code and deadlines. I'd watched Harry Potter, knew its broad strokes—a boy wizard, a dark lord, a magical school—but the details were foggy. This world was no movie. It was real, and I was trapped in it.
But I wasn't helpless. I had knowledge, skills, a mind honed by logic. I'd survived coding marathons; I could survive this. One day, I'd escape this cupboard, this house, these people. And when I did, they'd regret every moment they'd made me suffer.
For now, I needed rest. Tomorrow, I'd observe, analyze, and plan. I closed my eyes, the cupboard's darkness a cocoon, and vowed to endure.
[Word Count: 1856]