sun and the star

The pleasant serenity of Weston Ave stretches along the row of house pairs. The neat houses are spaced out with neatly trimmed hedges and white wooden picket fences between them, and there are children playing in the streets.

A few doors down from 34 Weston Ave, a little boy named Henry Donford has half a piece of chalk in his hand.

The chalk - a dusty pastel pink - is smeared with hints of red. Henry rubs the marks with his fingers, trying to preserve as much of the chalk as possible. His palms and knees still ache from the rough contact with the pavement, and he can hear the wild sounds of laughter in the distance.

("You stole it, didn't you? Didn't you? Freak, freak! Freak!")

Henry didn't steal the chalk. One of the neighbors gave it to him and offered free reign to the sidewalk. Henry, who saw other kids in the neighborhood make drawings with chalk, planned to draw some people on the floor.

His mind swamped with ideas, Henry imagined what his family would be like if his parents were here with him. Him, his mother and father. Would they look like the pictures of Dennis, Uncle Cooper and Aunt Karen? Was it three smiling faces with straight hair and brown eyes?

On the floor at Henry's feet, the other half of his chalk is crushed into the concrete by Dudley's shoe. Henry supposes he should be grateful that Dudley and his friends got bored enough to leave him with the other half.

With the piece of chalk left over, Henry thinks he doesn't have enough to finish an entire painting. Also, Dennis might come back and make fun of him for not having parents. The idea of ​​drawing them no longer seems appealing. He'll just have to keep the images in his head until he can put them down on paper. So maybe he can put them in his closet.

Decision made, Henry is content to draw a few simple shapes. Sun, moon and stars. The other day, Henry finally perfected the five-pointed star. He scribbled it all down on his math homework, which was fine, because Dennis later splashed water on him anyway.

Henry crouches, ignoring the painful stretch in his knees. There are small folds of shaved skin that he'll have to clean up before Aunt Petunia accuses him of making a mess of the house. Fortunately, Henry doesn't have to go back inside just yet. It's a hot summer day and he has time to try more complex shapes.

Henry drags his little pink chalk across the bumpy pavement, tracing a large circle on the floor. So he shifts his weight while admiring his work. The circle is beautiful and round, like the moon. Henry smiles at him.

At night, however, there is the moon and stars. Henry turns up his nose. The stars are always so far away. It's hard to see the stitches on them. If they were closer, maybe he would be better at drawing them.

On a whim, Henry gets to work, leaning over his circle and starting the first point of a star on the left side. He continues, touching the edge of the circle each time. Henry adjusts his position, changing shape as he goes.

It's harder to hold your arm when your knees are sore. Carefully, then, Henry places the palm of his left hand over the chalk outline, being careful not to smudge it. The scratch on his palm hurts a little, but it's only for a moment, so he leaves it as it is.

Henry finishes his star in record time, then straightens up. He thinks it looks pretty good. Certainly better than anything Dennis drew.

Satisfied with his drawing, Henry tucks the last piece of chalk into his shirt pocket.

Then he examines his hands. Despite their best efforts, they are covered in chalk dust. Henry turns up his nose. Aunt Karen won't like it if he comes back all dirty, covered in blood and chalk. He can't even wipe his hands on his shorts like Dennis does, because he'd get in trouble for ruining Dudley's secondhand clothes.

Henry claps his hands, trying to shake off the dust, the way his teachers do when blackboard brushes get too much chalk on them.

This creates a cloud of dust that rises on Harry's face. Henry squirms, staggering backwards, but it's too late.

He sneezes.

When the demon Lord Underneath is summoned to London, he hopes to harvest the soul of some degenerate bastard in exchange for a useless blessing.

Instead, he is greeted by a tiny human with big brown eyes and straight hair that blows in the wind when a breeze hits.

"Hello sir," says the little human, polite as you like. "Are you the monster that lives under Dennis' bed?"

Underneath doesn't know what a Dennis is, or why he has a creature living under his bed.

"I am not," says Lord Underneath, in a booming tone mixed with authority that has brought even the most powerful men to their knees. "I am Lord Underneath."

"U-" says the green-eyed weakling, spitting out his

syllables in a puff of air. "lunder neati."

"Under-neath," says the demon, enunciating clearly.

"Unda-nea-thi."

They will work on that later.

(Later?)

"Why did you call me?" Underneath asks instead, reaching down to the small human's height, the better to look him in the eye.

The human blinks at him in confusion, cheeks swelling with roundness. Ah, this is a young man, not just a little human. This explains the decrease in intelligence and the lack of reaction to external stimuli.

"What do you want?" Underneath clarifies. "What you want?"

The young man's face lights up, somehow. His little white teeth are bared in an ample display of aggression.

"I want a friend," says the straight-haired young man anxiously. "I want a best friend."

"And will you give me what I want in return?"

The little human shakes its head up and down in one quick motion.

Lord Underneath stares at him for a moment, mesmerized by the sight. So much confidence in that young face. Eyes so bright.

"I'll be back soon," Voldemort decides. "With your blessing."

The puppy shrinks. "Are you coming to the house?" he asks. The small face twitches with worry and anxiety. The scent of her fear spreads in strong waves.

Underneath finds this offensive. When he deals with humans, they are always terrified, and after the deal is done, they are overjoyed. The pleasure of power and riches drives them to ecstasy.

"Do you prefer another location?"

"Hmm." The little one drops his eyes to the floor.

Underneath tracks the direction, eyes on the roughly drawn summoning circle etched into the pavement.

How did such a young man complete such a feat? Perhaps your initial assessment of the little human should be revised.

"In three days you will return to this place," says Voldemort. "And you will call me here, and I will show up."

The puppy blinks. "With the moon and the star?" Coarse, but not incorrect. "Yea."

The human's hand reaches into its pocket and grabs something with quick fingers. Then the little hand extends, palm up, fingers spread to reveal a few inches of pink childish chalk.

It's not the chalk that catches Lord Underneath's attention.

What Underneath notices is the damaged skin on his palm, too rough to have been intentional. Blood sacrifice is necessary for an initial summons, of course, but this is… primitive. Even for a human.

"Pass this to me," Underneath says, and holds up her own pale hand.

He hesitates. Underneath raises an eyebrow. "You promised me anything, didn't you? And I promised what you want."

The pink chalk is quickly deposited in your hands. So excited, this one. Underneath closes his hand around the offering and hums in the back of his throat.

When your hand reopens, the piece of chalk is whole and untouched.

"Wow!"

Underneath puts the chalk back in the pup's care.

"Thank you, Mister U-" Mouth opens around the name once more, flustered. The little human's cheeks turn red, like an apple ripe for the picking. "Undi-neti," says the young man cautiously.

Underneath sighs, pats the untamed swath of hair on top of the human's head with his large clawed hand. "You can call me 'Matthew'."

Green eyes sparkle with joy. "Mr. Matthew! Thank you, Mr. Matthew!"

Underneath smiles, long, pointy teeth on full display. A nightmarish sight for most, but this little human just keeps smiling at him. Absolutely divine.

"Do you have a name, little one?" Underneath whispers, tracing a single finger over the pup's forehead, brushing his hair away.

There is power in names. Human names are required to seal contracts. Even if he and this human didn't seal their deal formal yet, Lord Underneath decided he would like the name of this one. He would like to hear.

"My name," declares the human child, sunlight blinding the lenses of her glasses as she lifts her chin proudly, "is Henry Donford."