Accio Paintbrush

Days turned into weeks, each one more unbearable than the last. The cupboard beneath the stairs had become his world—a cramped, cold refuge from the Dursleys' relentless cruelty. Harry's body had grown thin, his ribs pressing against his skin with each shallow breath. His life was a series of muted moments, punctuated only by the occasional clash of voices from upstairs or the sound of Dudley's footsteps, heavy and full of gluttony.

The Dursleys, in their ignorance or deliberate malice, paid little attention to the boy locked away in the cupboard. Yet Harry, or Elias, as he sometimes thought of himself when the memories of his past life flickered in and out, had learned to survive. He had learned to be invisible, to make himself a shadow in the dark. Dudley's insatiable appetite for food had created opportunities, small windows of survival. Harry had mastered the art of stealth, his Inventory allowing him to swipe enough food from the pantry—an apple here, a stale piece of bread there—just enough to quell the gnawing hunger that threatened to consume him.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

As the days dragged on, Harry's mind began to find solace in the one thing that remained unchanged—his ability to create. In the darkest corners of the cupboard, amidst discarded scraps of paper and broken pencils, Harry's hands moved with a fluidity that had long been absent in his life. He sketched. He drew. With each line he added, something began to change in him—a spark of life, of hope, that he had forgotten existed.

He didn't draw people, not yet. Instead, his sketches were focused on material objects: small treasures, things he could manifest with the power that lingered within him. Gold bars were his first. He had drawn them in painstaking detail, each one gleaming with promise, each one glowing with possibility. He could picture them so vividly in his mind, as though they were already real, already here in his hand.

He stored them away in his Inventory, a place that remained a mystery to him, a world of space and silence where objects could exist, waiting for him to call them into the real world.

But no matter how much he wished it, no matter how many times he concentrated with all his might, he couldn't draw magic. His heart ached with the desire to feel that familiar tug of power, to draw forth the spells and wonders he had once known. Magic, however, remained elusive, slipping through his grasp like water through his fingers.

With every failed attempt, frustration built within him. The hunger in his belly was nothing compared to the hunger in his soul—the yearning for something greater, for a connection to the power that he knew, deep down, was part of him. He could paint, he could create—why could he not conjure magic?

But the days passed, and still, his magic refused to answer.

The solitude became suffocating. In those rare moments when the Dursleys weren't in the house, Harry would sit in the darkness of the cupboard, staring at his creations. The gold bars, shining with possibility, reminded him of a different life—one he didn't quite understand but felt deeply connected to. The artist within him longed to do more, to create something beautiful, to make his mark on the world again. But for now, it seemed that survival was all he could manage.

And yet, despite the isolation, despite the hunger and the uncertainty, Harry—Elias—held on. Somewhere, beneath the surface of this new life, was a deep, quiet strength. He didn't know how it would all unfold, but he knew this: He would survive. He would find a way to make his art, to unlock the magic within him, and to change the course of his fate.

And one day, perhaps, he would paint a path that led him far away from the cupboard under the stairs.