Whelp

'Yes, sir?'

'You didn't finish your list,' Uncle Vernon growled.

The boy looked up quickly, then back down. He had finished all his chores, almost an hour ago. Rather than say so, however, he bit his lip. Uncle didn't like to be 'contradicted by little whelps.' Or argued with, or talked back to. 'Sir?'

'You were meant to sweep the patio,' Uncle Vernon clarified. 'But there are muddy tracks all over it.'

The boy craned his neck to see past the rotund man and his ominously flustered face, to the back yard. He had swept the flagstones earlier, but he could see a few tell-tale prints, in the shape of Dudley's new hiking boots. Not that Diddy Duddums ever went hiking in his life, but he wanted hiking boots, and so he got hiking boots. The boy sighed.

'Go and do it now, boy,' Uncle Vernon said. 'And no food tonight.'

His stomach growled in protest of this punishment, but the boy only nodded, head back down. Maybe he could sneak out of the cupboard after they'd all gone to bed. If he was really, really quiet. It had been two days already since he'd had anything to eat.

'NOW!'

'Yes, sir.' Moving quickly, the boy sidled past the huge man, barely ducking a cuff to the back of his head, and clambered out the kitchen door to the backyard. He collected the broom from the shed, which he'd whitewashed that morning, and started sweeping again. The sun was still bright on this summer evening, but it wasn't nearly as hot out as it had been this afternoon, when he'd pruned the hedges and mowed the lawn. His face, arms and the back of his neck were badly sunburned, and he was really, really thirsty.

The mud came up easily, and the boy glanced at the outdoor spigot while he swept, thinking that if he could turn it on, briefly, he could fill his aching belly and cool off his skin. But he caught movement by the back door; Aunt Petunia was watching, and she did not approve of wasting water on 'the boy.' He ducked his head again and finished up quickly, then returned the broom to the shed and headed back to the kitchen door.

Aunt Petunia was gone, and Uncle Vernon blocked his way. 'Sit there, boy,' he said through the screen, and pointed at the bottom step. 'You stay out here till we're done.'

'Yes, sir,' the boy said, and sat where he'd been told, facing the yard. This was one order he was used to.

Smells of dinner coming to the table floated through the screen door: roast beef, roasted potatoes, gravy, warm rolls, and fresh peas. As dinner progressed, the boy didn't move, didn't make a sound. From the dining room, Dudley spoke loudly, words often garbled around a mouthful of food, which he exclaimed over. He went over his exploits that day with his new bike, and his friends, at the park. Aunt Petunia encouraged him to eat, 'Just one more helping, Duddy dear, you'll waste away else. There's mummy's boy.' And Uncle Vernon praised Dudley's antics with such things as, 'Good on you, son. Show those lads a thing or two . . .'

The sound of cutlery and chewing and talk went on long enough for the sun to set. Aunt Petunia ended the meal with a chocolate custard with whipped cream, and the boy's uncle and cousin had several servings each. Not that either of them needed extras, the boy on the steps thought bitterly, as his own empty stomach cramped hard enough to leave him panting for breath. He pressed his hands to his belly and bent forward, over his knees.

Maybe Uncle Vernon would change his mind. Maybe there would be something left for him. A little scrap. Anything.

Chairs scraped back and the television suddenly blared to life from the sitting room. Aunt Petunia appeared at the screen door. 'Clean up in here,' she said coldly. 'And keep your paws off the remainders.'

'Yes, ma'am,' the boy said and climbed slowly to his feet. She would be watching him, he knew, maybe even counting up how many potatoes were left, and how many rolls. She often did. The boy got busy cleaning as his aunt settled in a flowery armchair next to the sitting room door. She glanced at him as often as she did the telly, as the boy cleared the table and counters, scrubbed pots and dishes, dried everything and put it all away, then wiped down all surfaces.

'Go to bed,' Aunt Petunia told him as he rinsed the dishcloth for the last time.

'Yes, ma'am,' he said. Shoulders slumped, he went back to his cupboard, wishing he'd tucked a wet cloth in his pocket. He could've sucked the water out of it once alone in the cupboard, and taken the worst of the edge off his thirst. But he'd hoped to be allowed to wash up before bed, maybe even use the loo. His Aunt wasn't in a generous mood tonight, it appeared.

He yanked on the chain to light the bare bulb inside the cupboard before pulling the door closed behind him. After skinning out of his baggy work clothes, he quickly slid into an old tatty tee shirt of Dudley's, which the boy used as a night shirt. Then he used the empty bucket in the corner of the cupboard to relieve himself, turned off the light and settled into his bed, an old camp cot that Dudley had once bounced on so hard, the spine had broken.

Light filtered through the cracks around the door, as well as noise from the telly in the sitting room, same as every night. The boy lay on his side, curled up under his thin, patched blanket, and stared at the cupboard door. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see well enough to trace the lettering on a picture he'd drawn in day school last year, done in green, red and purple crayon.

'Harry's Room.'

If all else failed, he used this sign to remind him of his name.

Later, after the lights were out, and his relatives had thumped their way upstairs, Harry waited until he could hear his uncle's severe snoring from the far bedroom before he eased the cupboard door open. Pausing after each step, craning to hear any change in sounds from upstairs, he crept to the kitchen and over to the garbage pail. It was the only place Aunt Petunia never thought to count things.

Another pause, and he eased up the lid. Moonlight through the kitchen window was enough to see by, and he reached eagerly into the pail. Fingers calloused and blistered from work sifted past gravy and custard scrapings from the plates, then junk mail and a few used tissues, to potato peels and the gristled ends of the roast, which his Aunt had thrown away before they all sat down to dinner. Harry eased the sliver of meat and fat out of the pail and moved it quickly to his other hand, while he went back to grab peelings. Unable to bear the hunger a moment more, he crammed the handful of peels into his mouth and chewed and swallowed fast.