Chapter Text
Limits. Constraints.
Not like space on a page, no. That was wrong.
Throughput.
Like a pipe. Or a drain. Or the restricted space of a box.
There was only so much room available. Only so much could pass through, fit inside the package, and reliably reach its destination.
Even then, would it arrive in the same order and arrangement it was sent? Or would it be tossed and turned and jumbled about in transit?
And from there, most importantly of all, would the receiver be able to make sense of what came to them? Or would it look like an incomprehensible assortment of rubbish?
A mess to be dismissed and discarded, as though it were nothing more than an unusually vivid dream…
No. Above all, that could not be allowed. The package had to arrive. What was inside must be understood. If it wasn’t, then sending it was all for nothing.
But how?
How to make him understand?
The limits. The constraints. Only so much could be sent. Only so much would fit inside the package.
That’s it, then. Not a question of how, but of what.
What to send…
And where to send it.
Facts and figures and names and places. The things that happened and must not happen and the thing that must happen instead…
That was too much. It wouldn’t all fit. And an incomplete picture would be far worse than one that came out jumbled.
He’d managed things before. Mostly. And he hadn’t known anything, back then. He just… did it.
But how would he do it this time… if he received the package?
That was it. Don’t send him a list or a plan, one that might well come out disordered and useless. Plans that were poorly explained were what led to this mess in the first place.
No. Send him a toolbox. Cram as many tools in the package as will fit. Give him something he can use, and he’ll handle the rest. He’d survived with less. He could do even better with more.
And the where…
That was the real trick. Don’t send it to his knowing. Send it to his feeling. That other kind of knowing that goes deeper than ordinary knowing ever could. Then it wouldn’t matter if the package came out jumbled. Even if he didn’t know, he would understand. Instinct. The will to act. All that stupid, reckless courage that saw him through so much… it would know what to do.
Just like the first time.
Is that it, then? A box of tools and the hope that bravery and sheer dumb luck would pull him through? Give him more he can use, but no idea of what to use it for?
For? The inside of the package is full…
But what about the outside? It is a package after all…
A little colourful wrapping paper, as it were. With a pretty picture on it. Distinct and meaningful enough to get his attention, to set him on the path, even if in his head it’s only a single distorted image, once the post had banged it about on the way.
The post? Stretching the metaphor a little thin, aren’t you?
Maybe. But doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to work.
There it is again, that ‘good enough’ attitude. She wouldn’t stand for how slapdash this is, you know.
I know. She wouldn’t. And she’d also tell me I’m handing a child a loaded pistol.
You are handing a child a loaded pistol.
He wouldn’t shoot anyone that didn’t deserve it.
Are you sure about that?
I haven’t been sure of anything in a long time. And who needs to be sure? Reckless, remember?
Fine, then. Send your ‘package.’ See what he does with it.
He’ll do what he feels he needs to. Just like I did.
He’ll make it. Even if all I can give him… is a toolbox and a picture.
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
Midnight, 31st of July, 1987
The Cupboard Under the Stairs, No. 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England
Ow.
Ow.
Ow!
Pain. Like something heavy had fallen on his head in his sleep.
Or as if something had been jammed into his head through his eye sockets. And then filled up the space inside like a balloon, expanding and straining his skull with the pressure.
He rolled to his side, trying to find relief from it.
He rolled again, hoping the other way would do better.
He rolled a third time, bumping his head on the cupboard.
Ow! Again!
The bump didn’t help make the pressure go away, either.
Had something gone inside his head? Did one of the spiders finally decide they’d had enough of him sharing their cupboard, crawling up his nose to make its displeasure known?
He hoped not. The spiders had been good neighbors for so long.
He needed to check what was wrong. He needed to see. If only the little light bulb wasn’t brok-
Ow!
His eyes, fully acclimated to the dark, shut themselves tight against the sudden brightness that assaulted them. He forced them back open again.
“What?” he whispered to no one. Or maybe to the spiders.
The bulb.
It was… No. It wasn’t on. Or fixed. Or even what was making the light.
It was just… light. A little ball of it. Floating there, just above his head. Bright and pure and white. But what was…
OW!
The pressure in his head surged. The light flickered and flared. His eyes scrunched themselves even tighter than before, and he groaned at the depth of the pain.
Make. It. Stop.
Please.
What is even… happening…
The skull-balloon, the straining inside, reached its worst. His ears, his eyes, everything felt pushed and mashed and squeezed and… and…
If only… could let… whatever it was…
Out.
Click.
No pop. No explosion. No bursting. Skull intact. Eyes still in their sockets.
Click.
The lock on the cupboard door. In the instant the latch came undone, the little light went out. The splitting pressure vanished. And in the space it vacated, dozens of words streamed through his thoughts. Funny words. Made-up words. And strange movements of a stick. Or a hand. His hand.
And on the back of his eyelids, behind and between each flash and whisper of each movement and word, there was an image.
A girl. With large front teeth and a mass of brown hair down past her shoulders. And she was smiling. Smiling while looking with bright hazel eyes. At him.
No one smiled at him.
No one.
It was dark again. Too dark. Unbidden, one of the words offered itself up for service. It knew what to do. And somehow… so did he.
“Lumos,” he whispered.
The little light returned, softer than before, gentler. Shining from the tip of the nail of his extended finger, radiating a slight warmth.
Wait… How did he even… know that?
And what was… that?
Did it matter?
He looked over at his glasses. His crooked, bent glasses.
He pointed his glowing finger. He knew what he wanted. Another word. Another motion.
“Reparo.”
Two quick snaps as the thin metal of the frames bent themselves sharply back into their proper shape.
The word that came to him next was not one of the countless strange new words, but one from daydreams and stories. The only word that seemed fitting to what was happening.
Magic?
Magic, something inside him affirmed.
With his warm, glowing finger leading the way, he pushed open the cupboard door. Quietly. To the kitchen. Dinner had been cold bread, and he had gone to bed hungry.
A problem, however. The cabinets and shelves we so high. And scooting the step-stool was loud. But like the problem of the darkness, the words answered his need. A wave of his unlit hand, and a swish and flick of his finger, and a fresher loaf of bread was floating down to within his reach.
Why not some butter, as well? And a knife to spread it? Out from the fridge and drawer both items flew. Before too long, most of the loaf was gone. Had he ever eaten that much at once? He didn’t even know his stomach could fit it.
But… wait…
In the morning, when his aunt and uncle saw the loaf missing…
He shuddered. And more words echoed in his ears.
Words for hiding. Words for tricking. Words for hurting.
Did he… want to hurt?
Did he need to?
Or could he just… not? Just not… any of it?
But if not back to the cupboard, to await an unpleasant morning… where?
The image from before appeared in his imagination once again. The girl. The smiling girl.
Her? There? But where was she? And who?
Did it matter? The world was big. Lots of places might be better than the cupboard. Lots of people might be better than his aunt and uncle.
Could he manage? Out there? By himself?
More words lined up for inspection.
Words for safety. Words for secrecy. Words for things that didn’t want to be found. Or people.
He frowned, not quite knowing what he was doing or why, and pressed his glowing finger over his heart.
“Nullus geotabula latensum.”
A tingle passed through him, and the hairs on his arm stood up. But he wasn’t done. He pressed his finger harder. This felt important. He didn’t want to be found.
“Vestigium nullus maximum.”
Something, something distant and ephemeral, strained against those words. Like a hand on his shoulder that did not want to let go. He didn’t want to be found.
“Vestigium. Nullus. Maximum,” he said again, shoulders tensing as he pushed against… whatever it was that resisted his effort.
The strange and ghostly grip weakened, but did not let go.
“Vestigium nullus maximum!” he shouted into the empty kitchen. He didn’t want to be found.
Instantly, it felt as though a blast of hot air washed over him, pleasant and… liberating? But what had that…
“Boy!” a groggy, angry voice called from outside the room, and immediately after, Uncle Vernon’s portly pajama-clad form appeared in the doorway. “What do you think you’re doing?! And how did you unlatch that door?! You’re going right back i-”
He didn’t let his uncle finish, and didn’t have to think about what came next. The words knew what they were for.
A quick forward jab of his hand. Out of my way, Uncle Vernon.
“Depulso.”
The large man flew backwards and slammed against the wall behind him, as though some great invisible rugby player had collided with him at full speed. From somewhere up the stairs, he heard Aunt Petunia scream.
Not the front door, then.
He quickly grabbed up the remains of his bread loaf and walked to the door to the backyard. As an afterthought, he held out his hand, one of the higher cabinets flying open as a box of Dudley’s biscuits sailed out into his grasp.
Minor provisions acquired, it was time to go. Vernon wasn’t a lightweight. He wouldn’t be down for long.
“Reducto!”
The glass of the door shattered outward, and—realizing he hadn’t gotten his shoes—he jumped out and to one side so as to avoid the shards now littering the ground. The backyard was clear, and the fence on the far side offered just as little resistance as the door had. Out of the corner of eye as he ran, he could see upstairs lights in the neighboring houses coming on, shadows of the residents appearing as they looked out to see what was making all the commotion.
But it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t catch him now. And wouldn’t taken him back even if they could.
He hoped the spiders enjoyed the extra space.
They’d be fine. And so would he.
He had the words, now. And his little glowing finger.
He wasn’t going back. He was never going back.