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The Left Words

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Little Harry Potter is four years old.

He recently noticed that the squiggles around his left wrist actually are letters! He even recognises one or two. There’s a lot of “a”s in those two words.

But now that he knows that they are letters, he can ask someone to read it to him! Maybe then, he’ll find out why he has things written on his arm.

He decides to ask Aunt Petunia.

She looks at him as if he’s dirt, hits his cheek, sends him to his cupboard and screams at him, “Keep your freakish things away from us good, normal people!”

 

Little Harry Potter is not so little anymore. He’s already six and in school! That’s practically adult!

He learns to read all by himself and studies the letters on his wrist. Avada Kedavra, they say. He doesn’t know what those words mean. But he also doesn’t dare ask anyone. It would surely end up the same way it did when he got better grades than Dudley.

He always gets punished when he shows freakishness.

 

Harry Potter is eight and world-weary.

That’s a cool word he read about in a dictionary. He tried to find this Avada or a Kedavra, but those words weren’t in the book.

He spends a lot of time in the library, searching for clues on what those words mean or why he even has them. The library is awesome. Dudley doesn’t come in here, the librarian is a nice lady who sometimes gives him an orange or an apple, and there’s so many books that he can hide there the whole afternoon without getting bored. Unfortunately, he hasn’t found the solution to the mystery behind his letters yet.

He traces over where they’re hidden. He’s done this so often these past few years, is for some strange reason fascinated by them. It basically started when he found out that the squiggles are letters, form actual words. They kind of are his, and his alone. He takes comfort in something that belongs only to him.

With a sigh, he closes the latest book. He really must get home.

It wouldn’t do to get punished because dinner is late.

 

Harry Potter is ten.

He still hasn’t found out why he has words, or what they mean.

The bandage he keeps around his wrist is dirty and smelly. Maybe Aunt Petunia will give him a new one. He daren’t ask; last time, he spent a week in his cupboard.

But that’s okay! The cupboard is comfortingly small, and familiar, and safe.

There’s no chores and fists and belts and screams in the cupboard.

He loves it.

 

At age eleven, Harry Potter receives a letter addressed to him. To him! He can’t believe it! Who would write to a freak?

He figures that it must have been some sort of mistake. He takes the letter to Uncle Vernon along with the others and explains his thoughts.

But Uncle Vernon is not pleased. He shouts at Harry to keep his freakish things to himself. Then, he takes Dudley’s Smelting stick.

As Harry returns to the cupboard, he aches all over. But he has a letter. Apparently, it really is for him!

This fact is almost as unbelievable as the content.