Chapter 2 The Night Before
The cupboard under the stairs was never truly dark—not completely. A thin, sickly line of light always leaked under the door from the hallway bulb that Petunia insisted stay on all night "in case of burglars". That narrow stripe was enough to paint pale stripes across Hadrian's bare arms and legs as he sat curled against the wall, knees pulled tight to his chest, blanket pulled over his shoulders like a cape that had long ago stopped being magical.
Tomorrow he would turn seven.
Or rather—he corrected himself with the tired mental shrug he'd perfected years ago—they would pretend he didn't exist for another year while the calendar ticked over anyway.
The dread had been building since he woke up that morning, a slow, insidious creep that started as a knot in his stomach and had grown into a full-body chill by midday. It wasn't the usual low-level anxiety that lived permanently under his ribs—the one that whispered don't make noise, don't look at them, don't breathe wrong. This was sharper. Louder. A klaxon in the back of his skull that had started as a distant throb weeks ago and now felt like someone was standing inside his head slamming a fire-alarm button over and over.
Run.
The word kept repeating itself, useless and mocking.
Run where? he thought, pressing his forehead harder against his knees until the pressure almost drowned out the ringing. Out the front door and straight into the arms of the police who'll drag me back? Over the garden fence and into Mrs Figg's rose bushes? Or should I just keep running until I hit the sea and then swim to France? Brilliant plan, Hadrian. Truly world-class.
He'd spent the entire day trying to outmanoeuvre his own instincts, his heart pounding harder with every hour that passed without incident. The air in the house felt thicker, heavier, like it was waiting to crush him. Every creak of the floorboards above made him flinch. Every glance from Petunia carried an edge he couldn't place. The dread coiled tighter in his gut, a cold, slimy thing that twisted with every breath, making his skin prickle as if unseen eyes were watching him from the shadows.
He had been so careful it was painful. Every movement calculated. Every word swallowed. He'd scrubbed the kitchen floor until the tiles gleamed like they belonged in a magazine, the harsh scent of bleach burning his nostrils and making his eyes water. He'd folded every towel with hospital corners, the fabric rough under his small fingers. He'd polished Vernon's shoes until they reflected his own pinched, pale face back at him, the leather polish sticking to his hands like tar. When Dudley wanted to use him as a goalpost for target practice with a tennis ball, he'd stood perfectly still and let the welts bloom across his arms without flinching, each impact sending jolts of fire through his skin that he forced himself to ignore. He hadn't spoken unless directly ordered. Hadn't looked anyone in the eye for longer than half a second. Hadn't existed too loudly.
And still the bells rang.
Louder now.
So loud he could feel them in his teeth, vibrating through his jaw like an oncoming train he couldn't see but knew was barreling toward him.
The house was unnaturally quiet, the silence pressing in like a physical weight, amplifying every small sound: the distant tick of the clock in the hall, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of settling wood that made his pulse spike. Dudley's video game had been turned off half an hour ago—unusual enough that Hadrian had noticed, his mind racing with possibilities. Petunia had switched off the television after her quiz show ended, which she never did unless she was waiting for something. Or someone.
The dread twisted harder, a cold sweat breaking out on his back, soaking into his threadbare shirt. His fingers dug into his knees until his nails bit skin, but it did nothing to ground him. What's coming? he wondered, the thought looping endlessly. What did I do wrong this time? Or is it just… me?
The front door slammed open so violently the whole house seemed to flinch, the impact vibrating through the walls and into Hadrian's bones.
Hadrian's heart lurched against his ribs, a sharp stab of fear that made his breath catch.
Heavy, uneven footsteps. A bottle clinking against the doorframe. Low, slurred swearing that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the words slurring together into a venomous growl.
Of course, he thought with the same exhausted resignation he always felt when the universe reminded him it hated him personally. Because why would tonight be any different? Why would anything ever just… let me sleep?
Vernon staggered into the hallway. His face was the colour of raw liver, shirt half-untucked, tie hanging crooked like a hanged man's noose. His small eyes—bloodshot and glittering—locked onto the cupboard door as though it had personally insulted his entire bloodline.
The door was ripped open so hard the hinges screamed, the wood splintering slightly at the edges with a sharp crack.
Hadrian had half a second to register the smell—whiskey, sweat, stale cigar smoke—before Vernon's meaty fist clamped around his thin wrist and yanked.
Pain shot up his arm like lightning, hot and electric, making his fingers tingle. He stumbled out into the hall, bare feet sliding on polished wood. The bottle in Vernon's other hand swung in a wide, drunken arc and smashed against the side of Hadrian's head.
Glass exploded with a sharp, crystalline shatter, shards raining down like jagged rain.
Whiskey sprayed across the wallpaper in amber streaks, the sharp, burning scent filling the air.
Shards bit into scalp and cheek, tiny pricks of fire that bloomed into throbbing heat. Warmth immediately trickled down his temple, into his eye, stinging with the bite of alcohol. Hadrian touched the side of his head—fingers came away slick and red, the blood warm and sticky between his fingers.
Well, he thought through the sudden ringing in his left ear, a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else for a moment, that's one way to redecorate.
Vernon wasn't finished.
He dragged Hadrian into the living room by the arm like a broken doll and flung him to the carpet. Hadrian hit hard—breath punched out of him in a whoosh, fresh bruises waking up under old ones with sharp stabs of agony. The impact jarred cracked ribs from the week before and lit new fires across his back, the carpet rough and unforgiving against his skin.
Petunia appeared in the doorway, dressing gown clutched closed at her throat, eyes wide with the special kind of alarm she reserved for anything that might stain her furniture. Dudley waddled down the stairs behind her in rumpled pyjamas, mouth already open in greedy anticipation.
Vernon swayed above Hadrian, fumbling at his belt with shaking, liquor-slick fingers.
"Freak," he slurred, voice thick with rage and drink. "All your fault. All of it. Ruined… ruined everything… my promotion… my reputation… bloody curse on this house…"
The belt finally came free, the leather whispering through the loops with a sinister hiss.
The first lash landed across Hadrian's shoulders. The buckle tore through the thin fabric of his oversized shirt with a rip and carved a crescent into skin, the metal cold and biting before the pain exploded hot and wet. Hadrian's body arched involuntarily; a choked sound escaped before he could lock it down, the sting spreading like fire across his back.
Don't scream. Don't give him the satisfaction. Don't—
The second lash landed across his ribs, the buckle glancing off bone with a dull thud that reverberated through his chest.
He couldn't stop the cry that tore out, raw and ragged.
Vernon kept swinging.
Each strike landed with wet, meaty thuds, the leather snapping against skin like a whip, the buckle ripping crescents that burned with every flex. Blood soaked through cotton and began to darken the carpet beneath him in uneven patches, the metallic scent rising thick and cloying in the air. Hadrian curled into a ball—arms over his head, trying to protect his face—while the blows kept coming, each one sending jolts of agony that blurred his vision with white spots.
He looked up once—only once—toward Petunia.
She stood frozen in the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin, satisfied line. When their eyes met, the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
Hadrian's mouth moved before he could stop it.
"Aunt Petunia… please…"
Her eyes glittered with something cold and triumphant.
She didn't move.
He screamed again—louder this time—raw and desperate, the sound scraping his throat raw, hoping against hope that tonight, just this once, a neighbour might finally pick up the phone. But Privet Drive had thick walls, thicker curtains, and even thicker fear. Everyone knew Vernon Dursley had friends in high places. Friends who made complaints disappear. Friends who made questions disappear. Friends who made people disappear.
So no one came.
Vernon eventually tired.
The belt slipped from his fingers and fell to the carpet with a dull thump. He stumbled backward, breathing like a dying animal, sweat dripping from his brow in fat drops. He lurched toward the liquor cabinet, the floor creaking under his weight. Bottle in hand, he took a long swallow straight from the neck and staggered into the kitchen, muttering about freaks and bad luck and how everything was the boy's fault.
Hadrian lay there—trembling, every breath a knife between his ribs, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth from where he'd bitten his tongue.
He could feel his heartbeat—too fast, too thin, fluttering like a bird trapped under glass. Blood pooled beneath his cheek. His left arm wouldn't move properly. Something inside his chest felt… wrong, a deep, grinding ache that made each inhale burn.
Get up, he told himself. Get back to the cupboard. If you stay here they'll do worse.
It took four attempts.
He dragged himself across the carpet using his right elbow, smearing a wide, dark streak behind him, the fibers sticky and warm under his palm. When he reached the sofa he used the armrest to haul himself upright. His legs shook violently. The room spun in slow, nauseating circles, the walls tilting like a carnival ride gone wrong.
Petunia saw the blood on the cream upholstery.
She shrieked.
"VERNON!"
Vernon came running—bottle in one hand, kitchen knife in the other. He was still drunk, still furious, still looking for something to blame.
He saw Harry.
He saw the blood on the sofa.
He roared.
The knife flashed upward.
Hadrian's eyes widened.
Time didn't slow. It just… stopped.
One heartbeat the blade was coming down.
The next heartbeat the knife was buried to the hilt in his chest—straight through the sternum, straight into his heart. The metal was cold at first, a shocking chill that pierced like ice, then it bloomed into searing heat as blood welled up, the sharp tang of iron flooding his senses.
Hadrian felt the cold metal punch through skin and bone. Then blooming heat. Then nothing at all below the wound. His legs gave out. He fell backward, hitting the carpet with a dull, wet thud. Blood bubbled up around the handle, soaking his shirt, spreading beneath him in a dark, glossy pool.
Everything stilled.
The television droned on in the background—some late-night advert jingle playing far too cheerfully. Dudley stood frozen on the stairs, mouth open in shock rather than glee for once. Petunia's shriek died in her throat, replaced by a strangled gasp. Vernon stared at his own hand, at the knife, at the boy he had just murdered.
For one impossible second, the entire house held its breath.
Then—
Pressure.
Not sound. Not wind. A deep, silent push that rolled outward from Hadrian's fallen body like a shockwave made of nothing and everything at once.
Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley froze mid-motion—statues carved from terror.
The air thickened, turned heavy, electric.
From outside the house nothing changed. The streetlamps glowed their usual sodium orange. A car drove past with its radio playing softly. A neighbour walked their dog, oblivious.
But inside Number 4 Privet Drive, the pressure expanded until it sealed the house completely.
No sound escaped. No light leaked. No one outside would ever know what was happening within these walls tonight.
The house had become a tomb.
And something inside it was no longer sleeping.