Petunia's shrill command still echoed in his ears as he stepped out of the cupboard, the coarse wood scraping against his palm. The hallway was dim, the September light filtering weakly through a small window above the front door. The air carried a crisp edge, a hint of the coming winter, mingling with the stale odor of the Dursley house. He squared his shoulders, his mind racing with calculations: keep his head down, observe, survive. The programmer in him demanded structure, a system to navigate this hostile environment, but all he had was a stolen notebook, a pen, and a body that felt like it might collapse under its own weight.
Petunia stood in the kitchen doorway, her bony arms crossed, her lips pursed into a thin line. Her blonde hair was pinned tightly, and her apron, stained with grease, hung loosely over a floral dress. Behind her, the kitchen was as he'd left it: cluttered, with the chipped Formica table now holding a steaming teapot and a plate of biscuits. Vernon lounged at the table, his bulk spilling over the chair, a newspaper spread before him. The headline screamed about a local council election, but Vernon's eyes were fixed on him, narrowing with disdain.
"You've been skulking long enough, boy," Petunia snapped. "There's chores to do. The garden's a mess, and you'll not get a scrap until it's done." Her voice was like a whip, sharp and meant to sting. Harry's—no, his—instincts flared. He hated the way she spoke, the casual cruelty, the assumption he'd cower. But he swallowed the retort burning in his throat. Not yet. He needed to play this smart.
He nodded, keeping his eyes down, and shuffled toward the back door. The kitchen floor was cold under his bare feet, the linoleum sticky in spots. As he passed the counter, he caught a whiff of the biscuits—sweet, buttery, and utterly out of reach. His stomach growled, but he ignored it, focusing on the task. The garden. A chance to explore, to think, maybe to find something useful.
The back door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing the Dursleys' small, neglected garden. The September air was cool, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying leaves. The sky was overcast, a blanket of gray clouds promising rain. The garden was a rectangle of patchy grass bordered by sagging wooden fences, their paint chipped and peeling. A rusted swing set stood at one end, its chains tangled and creaking in the breeze. To the left, a flowerbed lay choked with weeds, the remains of petunias drooping under the weight of neglect. A shed, its door warped and barely hanging on, leaned against the back fence. A pile of leaves, brown and curling, was heaped near the swing set, and a single, gnarled apple tree stood in the corner, its branches bare save for a few shriveled fruits.
He scanned the space, his programmer's mind breaking it down into components: obstacles (fences, shed), resources (leaves, apples, maybe tools in the shed), and risks (neighbors, Dursleys watching). The garden was exposed, with windows from the house and neighboring homes looking out. He'd need to move carefully, look busy, and avoid drawing attention.
Petunia appeared at the door, thrusting a pair of worn gardening gloves and a small trowel at him. "Weeds, boy. All of them. And rake those leaves. Don't dawdle." She turned away without waiting for a response, the door slamming behind her. He slipped on the gloves, too big for his small hands, and gripped the trowel. The metal was cold, the handle chipped, but it was something. A tool, a weapon if it came to that.
He knelt by the flowerbed, digging into the soil. The earth was hard, clumped with roots, and the weeds clung stubbornly. As he worked, he let his mind wander, piecing together the fragments of his situation. He was in Harry Potter's body, in a world that felt both familiar and alien. The Dursleys were worse than he'd imagined, their neglect a deliberate cruelty. Harry's memories painted a picture of isolation, of being less than human in their eyes. But he wasn't Harry, not entirely. He had skills, instincts, a way of thinking that didn't bend to their abuse. He'd been a programmer, someone who solved problems, who built systems from chaos. That was his edge.
The week unfolded in a grim rhythm. Each morning, he woke in the cupboard, the thin mattress offering no comfort. The space was suffocating, the air heavy with dust and the faint metallic tang of the bucket he was forced to use. He'd scribble in his notebook by the sliver of light from the window, updating his observations for the day. He'd write about the chores he had done, note the reactions of everyone during the day.
The house became his battlefield, each room a new terrain to map. The living room, where Vernon spent evenings glued to the television, was a cluttered shrine to mediocrity. A sagging sofa faced a bulky TV on a wooden stand, its screen flickering with game shows and news. Shelves held cheap porcelain figurines—cats, mostly—and a few dog-eared paperbacks. The carpet was a faded green, stained in spots, and the curtains, heavy and brown, blocked most of the light. Dudley's toys were scattered everywhere, a minefield of plastic soldiers and half-built Lego sets. Harry learned to move silently here, avoiding Vernon's temper and Petunia's eagle-eyed scrutiny.
The dining room, used only for Sunday lunches, was a study in pretense. A polished mahogany table sat under a dusty chandelier, its bulbs dim. The walls were papered in a garish gold pattern, and a sideboard held mismatched china. The room smelled of furniture polish and old wine, a faint sourness lingering from spilled glasses. He was rarely allowed here, but when tasked with dusting, he studied the space, noting the locked cabinet where Petunia kept her "good" silver. A potential bargaining chip, if he could get to it.
Upstairs, he avoided Dudley's room, the risk of discovery too high. The bathroom became a brief refuge, its cracked tiles and dripping faucet a familiar constant. He'd linger there, splashing cold water on his face, staring into the speckled mirror. His reflection—Harry's reflection—was unsettling: gaunt cheeks, green eyes too large for his face, a lightning scar stark against pale skin. He didn't recognize himself, but the scar stirred something, a vague memory of danger, of a story he couldn't quite grasp.
By day three, he'd mastered the art of invisibility. He moved like a ghost, anticipating Petunia's demands before she voiced them. Sweep the porch. Scrub the sink. Stay out of sight. The Dursleys barely noticed him unless he faltered, and even then, their punishments were predictable: a slap from Vernon, a skipped meal from Petunia, or Dudley's clumsy fists. He took the blows, his anger simmering but contained. Each hit fueled his resolve, a reminder that he'd outlast them.
The garden became his sanctuary, the one place he could think without eyes on him. On day four, he explored the shed, its door groaning as he pried it open. The interior was dark, smelling of oil and rotting wood. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with rusted tools, paint cans, and a cracked flowerpot. A lawnmower, its blades dull, took up half the space, and a coil of rope hung from a nail. Cobwebs draped the corners, and a single bulb, dangling from the ceiling, flickered when he tugged its chain. He found a small screwdriver, its handle cracked but usable, and slipped it into his pocket. The Game Boy he'd stolen was still hidden under his mattress, and with the screwdriver, he could pry it open, maybe salvage its parts. For what, he didn't know, but his instincts screamed to collect, to prepare.
The neighborhood beyond the garden intrigued him. On day five, while raking leaves, he studied the street through the fence slats. Privet Drive was a row of identical houses, their brick facades and manicured lawns screaming conformity. Cars rolled by, their engines a low hum, and a woman in a pink tracksuit pushed a stroller, her laughter carrying on the wind. The air was sharper now, the leaves turning gold and red, crunching under his feet. He wondered about escape, about running to another house, but Harry's memories warned him: neighbors knew the Dursleys, knew Harry as the "troubled" boy. No one would help. Not yet.
Food remained his biggest challenge. The Dursleys fed him just enough to keep him working—burnt toast, watery soup, the occasional bruised vegetable. He supplemented with apples from the tree, hiding them in the cupboard. On day six, he took a risk, sneaking into the kitchen at midnight. The house was silent, the clock ticking like a heartbeat. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting shadows on the linoleum. He opened the fridge, its hum loud in the stillness, and grabbed a slice of cheese, wrapping it in a napkin. He was back in the cupboard before the floorboards creaked, his heart pounding but triumphant.
By day seven, he felt a shift. His body was still weak, but his mind was sharper, honed by necessity. He sat in the cupboard, the notebook open on his lap, the pen scratching out his latest entry.
He closed the notebook, tucking it under the mattress. The cupboard was his prison, but also his laboratory. He'd mapped the house, learned its rhythms, and begun to build a system—a way to endure until something changed. The Harry Potter story lingered in his mind, a puzzle with missing pieces. Magic was coming, he was sure of it. But for now, he was a coder in a child's body, writing his own script in a world that wanted him erased.
Petunia's voice broke the silence, calling him to scrub the porch. He stood, the screwdriver a comforting weight in his pocket. The week had been a test, and he'd passed. Whatever came next, he'd face it with eyes open and code running in his veins.
[Word Count: 1675]