He liked confined spaces. In all that vast mansion, his favourite spot was the understairs cupboard. When I asked why, he’d ruffle his tousled hair, grin a toothy grin, and say he was waiting for the owl from Hogwarts.
“But you’re not an abused boy,” I’d argue. “So you don’t have to live below stairs.”
“I’m a magic boy,” he’d reply, as if no more explanation were necessary.
That’s the trouble with books—they bring alarming possibilities into the world.