Harry trudged forward, every step an effort against the towering blades of grass and the heat beating down from above. The sun had crept past its peak, casting long slanting rays across the garden. To him, the light felt like fire, baking the soil until it radiated warmth with each step. His tiny shirt clung damply to his back, his lips dry and cracking. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but thirst was worse—it made his throat feel like sandpaper, every swallow rough and painful.
He knew enough from listening to his mother's lessons: food could wait, but water could not. In a hot tropical climate like this, without water, he wouldn't last long.
On his trek, he had passed shallow puddles that shimmered like dark ponds between the grass stems. Yet even in his desperate state, he recoiled. They were murky, filled with soil, strange floating specks, and the faint tang of decay. No way, he thought grimly. He didn't want to trade thirst for an upset stomach that could kill him faster than dehydration.
His eyes turned upward instead, searching for the sparkling clarity of dew. The morning's drops had mostly evaporated by now, burned away by the unforgiving sun. But perhaps—just perhaps—some had survived in shade.
He pressed onward, eyes scanning. At last, he spotted it: a jewel of water clinging to the curve of a grass blade, sheltered beneath the canopy of taller stalks. Shielded from the sun, the drop glistened like a crystal bead, pure and inviting.
Without hesitation, Harry began the climb. His hands and feet found purchase on the slick green surface, his body straining with effort, but the promise of water drove him higher. At last he reached the droplet. It was larger than his head, a shimmering globe that reflected his tiny form. Leaning close, he pressed his lips against it and drank deeply. The water burst across his tongue—cool, fresh, faintly sweet, unlike any tap or bottled water he had ever tasted. It was as if the garden itself had given him a gift.
He drank until his thirst subsided, chest rising with relief. For a moment, he almost laughed, droplets running down his chin.
But one drink would not be enough. If he was to continue, he would need to carry water with him. Harry climbed carefully down and began to scour the undergrowth for something useful. His eyes caught a cluster of clover leaves—broad, supple, and surprisingly sturdy. With effort, he tore several from their stems, their edges curling slightly in his small hands.
Working with a determination that surprised even himself, he folded the leaves together into a pouch, securing them with thin twigs he twisted into rough ties. To his relief, the makeshift pouch held its shape.
He tested it, climbing another grass stalk that still held a lingering drop. With careful scoops, he funneled the dew into his pouch, watching it glisten inside like liquid treasure. The pouch held. No leaks. Harry grinned, feeling proud. He slung the fragile container over his shoulder with another thin twig, carrying it like a canteen.
As he pressed forward, his stomach growled loudly, reminding him of its neglected hunger. He groaned. Water had kept him alive, but energy was fading from his limbs. He needed food.
It was then he saw it: a flower, tall and radiant, its petals a deep crimson that glowed in the sun. Harry's eyes widened. He remembered seeing bees hover around flowers like this, collecting nectar. If it was good enough for them, perhaps it could sustain him too.
With renewed determination, he scaled the stalk, climbing past the ridges until he reached the flower's heart. Golden pollen dusted the air around him, clinging to his shirt and hair. In the center, gleaming like syrup, was nectar—a sticky, translucent liquid that smelled sweet.
Harry cupped it in his hands and brought it to his mouth. The taste burst across his tongue, sugary and light, like honey diluted with sunlight. He sighed with delight, drinking greedily until his belly felt warm and full. Already, he felt stronger, the weakness fading from his arms.
Not wanting to waste the discovery, he descended again and made a second pouch from clover leaves, carefully storing some nectar as though he were a forager preparing for a journey. The pouch felt delicate, but it held.
For the first time since shrinking, Harry no longer felt like a helpless victim. He felt resourceful, clever, even proud.
By the time he resumed his walk, the sun had tilted farther west, painting the garden in late-afternoon light. Shadows stretched long between the grass stems. He trudged onward, toward the looming silhouette of the house, its walls still impossibly distant.
He paused, panting, and looked back. To his scale, he had walked for what felt like hours, yet when he judged the distance, he realized with a sinking heart that he might not have even covered a single meter in real terms. His house loomed far away, a planet on the horizon.
Still, he clenched his tiny fists and pressed on. His parents would be back by six. He had to reach them before then.
He had to.