Escapist's Fantasy

"Now you listen here, boy!" Uncle Vernon screamed, his veins popping out of his large neck. "You're under our roof out of charity, and your attitude isn't helping you any!" Uncle Vernon narrowed his eyes and wagged his finger at the fifteen-year old Harry. "If you don't behave- then no food for the next few days!" Harry often went without food whenever he did the slightest to annoy his only remaining family. Uncle Vernon went on- naming whatever offense Harry had done, big or small, real or imagined- and told the boy again why he did not deserve to live under his uncle's roof.

Harry closed his eyes and drowned out Uncle Vernon's voice. I am the famous Harry Potter, he reminded himself. I was the infant who defeated Voldemort when grown wizards could not. I can handle this. I have the strength, I have the ability within me to overcome this. He opened his bright green eyes again, the eyes that he had inherited from his dearly departed mother, and he stared- stared hard at Uncle Vernon's finger. The longer he stared out of those green eyes, the easier it was to watch the transformation.

He watched as Uncle Vernon's wagging finger grew longer and thinner. Almost like Pinnoccio's nose when he told a lie. The more he wagged his finger, the thinner it became. It kept growing, and growing, shooting out from the fat hand from which it came, like the branch of a tree, only instead of taking years to grow, it was taking under a minute. In fact, Harry thought to himself, the finger rather does look like the branch of a tree. It was now a long, thin, peachy-colored stick hanging out of Uncle Vernon's hand, wagging up and down, being watered by spit flying out of his screaming mouth. It no longer resembled the rest of his fingers. Uncle Vernon seemed to take no notice of this transformation. He just kept railing on Harry, as was his normal routine, not noticing anything out of the ordinary with his finger. Harry's heart gave a leap as he saw something else happen to that deformed finger that apparently only he could see. It was changing color. And not just any color. It was becoming a shade of brown, the kind of brown only found on the barks of trees. To further back up Harry's astonishment at this, the finger became gnarly like a tree branch, and pointy at the end, as if Uncle Vernon had not clipped his nails in a while. Comical thoughts danced about Harry's mind. "My oh my!" Harry thought to himself. "Is Uncle Vernon turning into a tree?" A smile crept up, ever so slightly, on the corners of his mouth, at this thought. Whoopee! No more yelling Uncle Vernon.

Then, a frightening thought occurred to Harry- it was now no longer like a stick hanging out of his hand. In fact, Uncle Vernon seemed to have grown another finger in place of the stick, and this finger was now wrapped around the stick apparatus hanging from his palm. In the meantime, the rest of his fingers seemed to have found the stick, and were clutching it as well. Whatever Uncle Vernon was waving, wasn't a finger- and it wasn't a stick, either. It was a wand. A wand- a wand pointed straight at Harry's face, about to inflict him with a hex.

He broke his stare from the waving transformation and cast his green glance into his uncle's face. He looked up into Uncle Vernon's flaming eyes and saw that they, too, had undergone a transfiguration. His eyes were no longer beady and blue, but slanted- like a lizard's- and red. Blood red! The more Uncle Vernon screamed, the more his skin color turned this same hue. But, wait- it was turning from red to an ashen gray. And now, his large body was shrinking at a fast rate, as if someone had popped the side of a tire and was letting out all the air. His clothes, tailored for a body his size, hung baggily around him, and then converged together to form a robe. Finally, his uncle's voice changed- now instead of a loud, angry yell, it was more like a soft, whispering, raspy, hissing kind of voice.

Uncle Vernon had turned into Lord Voldemort.

Harry's heart began to race, and at the same time he felt someone's eyes on him. He quickly looked over his shoulder, and saw that his Aunt Petunia standing behind him. The funny thing was, she seemed not shocked at her husband's new appearance. She had a strange expression on her face, her toungue slightly hanging out of her puckered lips. She was standing in a completely straight position, her arms stuck to side and her feet touching ankles, as if she were a soldier waiting for orders. Her bony features became slim as she underwent a transformation of her own. Her long neck extended outwards, and her face contorted into a diamond shape. Her eyes shrank and darkened in color, and her skin became a nasty greenish hue. Oh, god, not her as well! Harry knew that face. He had seen it before, in the graveyard where Cedric Diggory had been murdered. Aunt Petunia had turned into Voldemort's snake, Nagini.

While he'd been looking at Aunt Petunia, Dudley had been changing as well. Harry caught the last few seconds of this transformation. The person standing there had Dudley's face. But the body was much to thin to ever belong to his cousin. The hand on this body was grasping a wand as well, and the clothes herald to a gothic age, not at all like what Dudley wore. The face still belonged to Dudley, but the voice definitely did not. Dudley was laughing, but it was not his own laugh. It was a drawling, mocking laugh. Then, his face changed, and contorted to match the body and laugh to which it belonged. His round pink face turned pale and pointy, and his hair a white-blonde.

Dudley had turned to Draco Malfoy.

Harry took in a deep breath and turned to face Lord Voldemort. He knew what to do. His wand was right here in his hand. "Expelliarmus!" he said under his breath, barely moving his lips so that Lord Voldemort couldn't hear. But he did.

"What did you say??" he hissed.

"Expelliarmus!" he screamed.

It worked. Voldemort's wand was now in Harry's hand. But, Lord Voldemort wasn't about to be outdone. He picked up Harry by his unruly hair and dragged him across the house. Soon, Harry found himself locked in the cupboard beneath the stairs.

"But at least he hasn't killed me," Harry thought to himself.

But then again, if he chose not to feed him, he could kill him. Hmmm, that's what the cupboard was for. To slowly starve him.

"It's okay, Hedwig," Harry said, curling up in a ball and talking to a snowy white owl feather that he had placed above his pillow. "Hagrid will come- he always comes to my rescue."

He reached under his pillow and grabbed out a manuscript that he had been working on. The title stared up at him, "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix". Fifth installment in his series, this was his Hagrid- once he had finished this story, he could publish it and make some money. Then, he could buy school supplies and go to some nice college where he could learn a trade, make money, and buy his own food. Then they couldn't starve him to death. He would eat wonderful food. Food like roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, loads of gravy and ketchup, and of course peppermint humbugs. Harry's mouth watered at the thought of these delictables, and forced himself to stop before he became too hungry.

Harry picked up his ball point pen, with one end broken off, the one he had dug out of the trash. But as he set the tip down to the page, no words came out, as none had for the last few weeks. He could think of nothing new to write, cursed with a long drought of writer's block- or was it?

Maybe he could write about a Quidditch match, where he grabbed the snitch, and everyone cheered and went off to the Great Hall to eat to their heart's delight and drink plenty of butterbeer. Where everyone loved him and carried him away lovingly on their shoulders instead of forcefully away by his hair. He always loved Quidditch matches. Instead, two tears fell down his cheeks, one hitting the fresh ink, causing it to run.

"You're too old for these fantasies, Harry," he told himself. In reality, he had never made a team in his life.

Of course he knew it would happen eventually- a child's fairy tale will only carry someone for so long.

They had worked for him in the past. The people he disliked in real life apparated as the villains in the story, and got their just deserves. Since he had no friends, he had to make some up.

But lately, these stories no longer served as a proper escape for him. He knew it would happen eventually. A child's fairy tale will only carry a person for so long. He knew this day was coming soon. He could feel it coming for some time now. His problems were now too many to be brushed aside by a joke from Fred or George, or a Dumbledore with twinkling eyes, or any other wish in ink form. This was far deeper than mere writer's block.

"Still, it was nice while it lasted," he sighed.

He reached up and touched the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. If only- if only it were true. But no. He was stuck here. Stuck as Harry Potter, student of Stonewall High School, The-Boy-Who-Lost.

He really had said the word "expelliarmus" to Uncle Vernon. His uncle took it as some new curse word and decided that he had enough of the boy. That was when he threw him in the cupboard. Uncle Vernon, of course, was the Ultimate Evil in his story.

He smirked, thinking of some of the things he had devised. The Patronus that resembled his father- that had come about because of an old photograph that he came across. His father was standing behind a tree, and the branches were in such a position that they looked as though they were coming out of his head- like a stag's. It was comical, actually. And Lupin- he had seen a dog in the park that at first he was scared of, but later found out was quite friendly. Then some guy came along and kicked it away. McGonagall's cat form was taken from one of Mrs. Figg's cats, a cat who had markings around its eyes, and who liked to sleep on maps and books. Cho Chang was inspired by a cheerleader whom he had admired from afar- and he fantasized not about obtaining a date with her, but just about having the guts to approach her. Snape, though a despicable character, was based on his creepy chemistry teacher. Harry often imagined some detestable past haunted him. Madam Hooch was his P.E. teacher (though he was more like Neville in P.E.). And Sirius Black- he was the most real. He did have a god-father, and he was indeed in prison. But that was for drunk-driving and manslaughter, not for murder. This was only to mention a few. His inspiration came from all around him.

He choked back a sob. He might as well put this silly story away. What was he thinking, getting it published? Who cared about the escapist fantasies of an unwanted, abused child?

"After all," he said, shoving the manuscript under his pillow again, "there is no such thing as magic."