It was a common and unsurprising scene in the Dursley residence: nine year old Harry Potter sitting in his cupboard, belly empty and aching. However, the excited gleam in his eye instead of the usual cold indifference was something entirely new. He stared at the old pocket mirror he had snatched earlier while cleaning Aunt Petunia’s room, thinking back on the day’s strange events.

After somehow turning his hair back to the way it used to be before the haircut, he endured a normal day at school, normal for him at least—which meant the usual name-calling and Harry-hunting by Dudley and his gang. He felt greatly comforted, though, by the fact that he didn’t have bald spots instead of hair.

Sadly, Uncle Vernon didn’t forget about the hair incident when he returned home from work. Not that Harry thought he would forget, but it was nice to hope sometimes. The man seemed to be in a good mood though, for him at least—just gave Harry a few punches and a warning, sending back to his cupboard after serving dinner.

Harry felt his stomach complain loudly over the missed meal.

“Oh well,” he thought, “At least Aunt Petunia packed me half a sandwich for lunch, which eased the emptiness a little bit.”

“But nevermind that,” he scolded himself for unnecessarily thinking about food, the tastiness of food, the deliciousness of…stop, please. “Back to the subject at hand, or rather, away from his aching belly.

He gave a half smile as he remembered the magic? was it? that took place this morning. Throughout the entire day, his thoughts had been looking forward to this very moment, when he could finally test what had occurred. Part of him steeled himself for a big disappointment if nothing happened, but he couldn’t deny the anticipation running through his veins as he stared at the black-haired, green-eyed boy in the mirror.

“There’s nothing to lose,” he reassured himself. “After all, if it doesn’t work, I’ll just be the same good-for-nothing freak.”

“But—if it does work,” he put his arms around himself and squeezed in hope, “I’ll be a good-for-nothing freak with more freakiness.” He grinned fiercely. “More freakiness sounds good.”

Now to start by choosing a different hairstyle. Harry cocked his head slightly to the left in thought, one hand distractedly rubbing a small bruise on his shoulder.

“Aha!” he whispered loudly, raising a finger into the air. He would try to turn his hair into a mohawk. Tommy, a boy in his summer school class, had just gotten one yesterday. He giggled at the thought of Aunt Petunia’s reaction to his hair in a mohawk. Well, not that he would actually show her his new hairstyle if it worked, but it was nice—and amusing—to think about, anyway.

Harry then closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on Tommy’s mohawk, being sure to remember all the details. Ready. He reopened his eyes and looked concentratedly at his visage, whispering, “I wish my hair would change into a mohawk,” all the while picturing Tommy’s hair in his mind.

His eyes grew wide as saucers as he stared in the mirror, witnessing his hair morph not only into a perfect mohawk, but also turn from a pure black to a sun-bleached blonde.

“Wicked!” he almost yelled, but remembered in time to tone it down to an excited whisper. That’s right! Tommy’s hair was a blonde color, and since he was picturing Tommy’s hair, all the way from the style down to the color, his hair changed into blonde also.

But forget about all the how’s and why’s; it actually worked! Magic really and truly did exist! Who cared about being freaky—this kind of freaky he didn’t mind a tiny bit. He focused on changing his hair back to its original form. This time, the shift came much faster. He smiled again. His sleepy eyes were filled with glee, and he fell quickly into a sound sleep, dreaming of running around the block with rainbow-colored hair and Aunt Petunia chasing after him with a pair of scissors, yelling, “What will the neighbors think?!” Of course, she would never catch him. Rainbow colored hair was too good to be cut off; everyone knew that.

The next couple of days, whether he was cleaning for Aunt Petunia, being chased by Dudley at school, or being yelled at by his uncle, Harry always looked forward to the times his uncle would order him to his cupboard. Even if he went there without meals or after a beating, his little pocket mirror was his new best friend. That—and his magic, he had decided to call it. Each time he changed his appearance, it went a little faster. He discovered that he could also morph the color and shape of his eyes, as well as his bone structure—though that was a little harder.

While Harry was going through all his experiments in the small cupboard, an idea gradually began to take form in his mind to make his lackluster life a bit more bearable. He decided that in the cupboard he would be an entirely different person. He wouldn’t be Harry, the freak that nobody wanted. Changing his appearance in the cupboard would just make the fantasy more real. While outside the cupboard, he would take his duties and punishments without giving the Dursleys the satisfaction of complaining or crying. However, inside his cupboard, he could be someone else, someone that had exciting adventures and friends that cared for him.

He decided to take on the name Oliver; having liked the name and character after reading Oliver Twist in the school library during several lunch times. As for Oliver’s appearance, he chose his favorite combination during his expermentations—coppery red hair that stuck out all over his head like it was alive (he had gotten rather fond of his messy hair after Aunt Petunia had attempted to chop it off) and cold, ice blue eyes that were slightly slanted.

“Fire and ice,” he said softly and smiled. “I’m a contradiction no matter what appearance I take. Magic and all”

His infamous scar had also disappeared, even though he could still feel it if he touched his forehead. Without seeing it on his face, he felt even more like a different person. He looked at his new form with awe and anticipation. In here, by himself, he could act like the real Harry, without having to hide his emotions to prevent taunting and ridicule from the Dursleys. He didn’t have to keep an indifferent expression on his face when Uncle Vernon slapped him around. He could just be a normal boy, with incredible adventure: with monsters to fight and innocents to rescue, of course.

Harry looked at the mirror again, taking in his appearance then laying back against the wall of the cupboard to get into a comfortable position.

“My name is Oliver,” he began. “I am an orphan. My parents did not die as drunkards in a car crash. My father was murdered trying to save my mother and me. My mother died shielding me with her body. I wasn’t abandoned or ignored. I was loved.”