The Streets of New York

Chapter 1 - The Attic's Prisoner

By Madeline Elster

~

Harry awoke from a splendid dream. In New York City he lived like a king and was respected and befriended by many. His house was a luxurious one on a high fashioned street in a rich neighborhood of the City, and his bedroom huge, with a four-poster bed, a fireplace, and a little recreational room where he could entertain friends. He had a certain friend, a skinny fellow with red hair, who was closer to him than a brother. And his parents hadn't died in a car crash; they were at home, greeting their little king with smiles while he returned from living grand on the streets of New York.

Now he lay on his single mattress, reaching over for his glasses that rested on the floor of the dusty attic of the Dursley home. Harry stretched, pulled the bed sheets away from his body and sat up, yawning. He walked across the room to the window, sunlight radiating from a sun higher in the sky than Harry was used to seeing in the mornings. Aunt Petunia must've forgotten to wake him up. Harry found that odd.

In the ten years Petunia had instituted her morning schedule, she had never forgotten to wake him up. At five thirty every morning she'd be at the attic door screeching, "Get up!" Harry was allotted a small amount of time to shower and dress before he descended into the kitchen to cook breakfast while Petunia prepared lunch for her husband, Vernon, and daughter, Mary. The brilliance in Petunia's plan relied on Harry's lack of cooking skills--the family ate a bad breakfast and a fantastic lunch and gave Petunia the glory and Harry the hate. Vernon and Petunia preferred it that way.

So it was strange that she hadn't woken him up this morning. It didn't occur to Harry until a few moments had passed that the reason why he'd been forgotten was because today was Mary's birthday. The Dursleys wouldn't let Harry out of the attic today even if it caught fire, because Mary's birthday was a sacred day. They made a sport out of outdoing themselves with presents every year--this year, it was a trip to New York, next year, a car, perhaps. Harry, of course, wasn't allowed to go with them on their trip; he had to spend the weekend with Mrs. Figg, a church elder with a fetish for cats. He frowned and turned back to the attic. Today and the whole weekend looked as grim as the wood that lined the ceiling.

Harry heard a knock at the door that drew him out of his thoughts. Perhaps it was Aunt Petunia with a half-empty plate of breakfast scraps, given to him in hopes he won't die of hunger. The Dursleys didn't want a dead body in their house; murder would ruin their reputation. Harry crossed over to the door, opened it, and to no surprise found his aunt standing there with a glass of milk and a plate of small bacon strips and a measly slice of toast. However, Petunia wasn't alone: She was accompanied by Vernon, who looked as happy to be there as he would've been had he, too, been handed a plate of small bacon strips and a measly slice of toast. "We need to talk," he said, frowning. Harry nodded let them in. He noticed his aunt and uncle looked more thin-lipped and nervous than usual. Vernon never stopped pacing, nor ceased fidgeting his hands; Petunia was still standing in the doorway.

Vernon cleared his throat and commenced to speak. "As you know, we were going to let you stay at Mrs. Figg's house over the weekend while we took your cousin Mary to New York to celebrate her birthday. However," he twitched, "some... complications have arisen. You cannot stay at Mrs. Figg's house. She was in a car accident yesterday and will be in the hospital for the next few weeks." Harry perked up his ears. Who was he going to stay with now? Uncle Vernon took a while before continuing, "Since we have no where else to place you for the weekend, we've come to the decision that you should..." Vernon gave an exasperated grunt, "That you should come with us to New York for the weekend."

"What?" Harry cried. At this, Vernon fumed.

"I would expect you'd be more grateful! We could have left you on the streets for the weekend, but instead we're taking you to New York with us--and all you can say to that is 'what'?"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon." Harry feigned a guilty look.

"You better be! I expect you to be packed and ready to go at 7:45 Friday morning, boy," growled Uncle Vernon, and running into Petunia, who was still standing in the doorway, he stormed out of the attic, slamming the door behind him. Harry, all the while, stood staring at the window, not believing that the Dursleys were taking him to New York.

~

After that conversation, Harry's day slowed to crawl. The time it took pack his clothes felt like hours instead of minutes, and every wondering glance at the dusty clock on the wall gave him a shock in telling him such. He entertained himself with thoughts about the city, reminiscing about the dreams he had stored in his memory and the images he had seen in the books he had checked out from the school library.

No matter how hard he tried he could never get himself to believe he was going to New York, the city of his dreams, with the Dursleys. The Dursleys never took him anywhere unless they could find no one to keep him. What luck he must have! Mrs. Figg's accident was misfortunate, and, when contemplating his "luck," Harry meant no disrespect, but he would take her injury if it meant a cat-free weekend in New York City.

The downside to this elongated time span was that Mary's birthday party downstairs was stretched to an unbearable eternity. As usual, the Dursleys had banished him from public view, and Harry was happy for it. He couldn't stand the 15 giggling Surrey debutantes celebrating with Mary, and the feeling was mutual. Harry shrugged and moved over to the side of his bed looking for shoes as the phonograph downstairs blared on. Someday that party would end...

Harry heard the door open, and someone enter the room. Surprised, he turned around to see who it was: Mary. He was shocked; Mary never came to visit him. She probably wasn't allowed to. She smiled at him and closed the door quietly. "Hello, Harry," she whispered as she tiptoed her way to his bed. "Sorry to walk into your room without knocking... I didn't want my parents to hear."

Harry blinked. "Er..."

"I know, you don't see me here often. But..." she sighed. "I don't want to be there right now. I love my parents, but sometimes..."

"They can get to you," Harry said finally, staring at his feet and not looking at Mary.

"I guess. I don't know..." she trailed off and gazed at a spot on the floor. "I hate the way they treat you, Harry. Why do they have you locked up here with nothing to do when you could be downstairs making friends?" Harry shrugged. He knew the Dursleys hated him but never gave much thought to why they did, at least not anymore. "They'd kill me if they knew I was up here," she continued. "They're always lecturing me on how I should stay away from you, how you're such a bad influence, like you were a Jap or something."

Harry laughed. "That's silly."

"I know! You're the furthest thing from a Jap! I mean, you seem pretty nice, and you're a lot smarter than the guys in school. Boy, what morons! I don't know... I just wish my parents didn't have to be so mean to you all the time." Mary sighed, and remained silent for a while. "So, I guess they told you about New York?" Harry nodded. "Are you excited?" He nodded again. "Me, too. I always wanted to go there, but mom and dad were too scared. They kept thinking we were going to get robbed or something. They gave in eventually." She went silent for a while and examined a bracelet on her arm. "Are you packed?"

"Yeah. Packed this afternoon. Didn't have anything else to do, you know?" Mary smiled and looked at the door.

"Well, I better go back downstairs. People are probably looking for me." She stood up and headed to the door, but before leaving she turned around and stared at Harry. "Um, see you tomorrow, then." She smiled and walked out. Harry turned back to his suitcase and sighed. Life was becoming rather interesting at the moment.