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Obliviate

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At Number 4 Private Drive, Mr and Mrs Dursley were absolutely, perfectly, normal, thank you very much. They were normal and their beloved son is also perfectly normal.

They lived in a perfectly normal neighborhood and in a normal two story, four bedroom, two and half bath house. Mr Vernon Dursley drove a normal car to his normal job while Mrs Petunia Dursley lived a life of a normal homemaker. Their son, Dudley Dursley, was a perfectly normal nine year old boy who played normal video games and played with his utterly normal friends.

If you looked at the dictionary definition of normal you would likely see a description of the Dursley’s lives.

That is, if you don’t take in to account Harry Potter, the ‘freaky boy’ who lived in the cupboard under the stairs.

While Dudley was a perfectly normal nine year old boy, Harry was an absolutely abnormal eight year old boy.

Dudley had thin blonde hair, small dark eyes, and was “big boned” (if you asked his mother) or “bordering on developing juvenile diabetes” (if you asked his doctor). Harry had ‘a rats nest of black curls’, green eyes that were too large for his small face, and was “too scrawny” (if you asked Aunt Petunia) and “speccy” (if you asked Dudley).

Dudley was loud and boisterous and laughed often while Harry was meek, withdrawn, and had heard more of his own cries in his life than his own laughter.

Dudley enjoyed playing violent games; sometimes this meant shooting games on his video consoles and sometimes it meant gathering a gang of boys and beating up his cousin, both are rather violent and both are his favorite past times. Harry enjoys hiding from his relatives and creating “freaky magic”.

You see, Harry discovered at the young age of 6 that he was special in a way that no one else he has met is. Not only for the lightning bolt shaped scar he carried on his forehead, or for his status as an ‘unloved and unwanted burden’ to his relatives, but because he can perform magic.

The first time Harry performed this magic, he earned a rather vicious beating from Uncle Vernon, he still has a scar on his shoulder from it, but the image of the plate he dropped repairing itself was burnt in his mind for the rest of the day.

Laying in his cupboard that same night, young Harry considered the possibilities for why the plate repaired itself. He didn’t believe that it was a coincidence that he desperately wanted it to be fixed to avoid Uncle Vernons hard fists or Aunt Petunias sharp slaps, but he had to consider other possibilities.

The longer he laid there nursing his injuries, the smaller the list of possibilities shrank.

Harry didn’t believe it was a self repairing plate, as he had never heard of those before. He also didn’t believe that someone else in the house made it happen since he was the only one who saw the plate falling before it broke. He was also likely the only one who wanted the plate to be repaired the second it shattered in order to avoid his relatives’ wrath.

Harry eventually decided that night that if it was actual magic that fixed the plate, it must have come from him. After all, Aunt Petunia was always saying he was a no good freak, and Uncle Vernon screamed in his face one time that magic was a freak concept and he better never hear that word said again.

Harry was rather young, but even he could add up two and two to come to the conclusion that if it was freaky magic then it could have only came from the freak under the stairs.

The next morning after the broken plate incident, Harry was left in his cupboard all day due to the bruises and marks Uncle Vernons hands and belt left on the visible parts of his body. Usually, this would be a cause for concern for Harry, who knew he wouldn’t be given even a scrap of food unless he completed his list of chores, but since deciding that it was a possibility he could do magic he wanted more alone time to see if it was a one time incident or not.

The young boy wasn’t sure how to start. He thought back to the prior night and tried to remember exactly what he was thinking and feeling when the plate repaired itself. He knew he was scared, and he remembered thinking he didn’t want the plate to be broken but he didn’t remember saying anything out loud that could have been considered a spell, because, as all children knew, even the Fairy Godmother herself had to say bippity bopitty boo in order to change the pumpkin to a carriage.

Harry gathered a piece of paper stuck to his wall that proudly stated ‘Harry’s Room’ and ripped it in half. He laid the two halves of paper on the cot right next to his legs and closed his eyes and thought to himself, I’m scared and I want this paper to be fixed. I’m scared and I want this paper to be fixed. He repeated this mantra a couple times before peeking open one eye to check.

He felt bitter waves of disappointment hitting him when saw the paper was still ripped.

He decided to try again, and again, and finally a fourth time all with the same (non) result.

Harry closed his eyes again, fighting against tears of disappointment. He tried to focus on the specific thoughts and feelings he had last night when the plate fixed itself.

I’m scared and want this paper to be fixed… I’m scared… I am scared actually… What if I’m not special? What if I’m only a freak?

At this last thought, Harry could feel his breath coming quicker and his hands starting to shake. He tried to control it by thinking of how he desperately wanted to be special and if only he could just fix the paper!

With that last thought, Harry felt a pull inside him at the center of his chest that spread out through his arms and fingers. It was a pleasant sensation, warm and tingly. He gasped and a slow grin made its way across his young face when he saw that immediately following the tingling in his fingers the paper repaired itself.

He was special. He was more than just a freak under the cupboard. Harry Potter was magical.