After the creation of Oliver, life became much more bearable for Harry. Even though he was bullied by Dudley’s gang and forced to do endless chores, these things ceased to matter when he changed his appearance, looked deep into his pocket mirror, and became a totally different person. Uncle Vernon seemed to be in a forgiving mood recently also, which luckily meant only a couple cuffs to the head a day; nothing particularly harsh, thankfully. Harry’s meals were pretty regular, too; though he only received scraps, Aunt Petunia was generous enough to feed him three times a day. Oliver went on many adventures and defeated many enemies, rescued many innocents. So all in all, it was a nice couple of weeks that Harry enjoyed. He savored it, knowing that good times and bad times came in cycles, so might as well be grateful for the good times while they lasted.

And the bad times came abruptly.

It was a normal day—

Harry woke up and cooked breakfast for the family. He accidentally burned a bit of the bacon, nothing extremely out of the ordinary. Uncle Vernon yelled at him as a result, and the man waddled on to work after kissing his wife goodbye and solemnly shaking Dudley’s hand. Aunt Petunia drove Harry and Dudley to summer school. He endured Harry Hunting during the school recess. It was a lucky day, too; he managed to get away from the large mass of his cousin without too many bruises. After school, he did some chores and “helped” Dudley do his homework.

Uncle Vernon usually came home at exactly six o’clock in the evening. When he came home today at 6:27 (a terribly obscure number for such a prim and ordered family like the Dursleys), Harry grew a little wary, slightly sensing that something was out of place. His uncle also normally whistled a little tune while hanging up his coat and slapped Harry on the side of the head with a joking grin on a his face, though Harry himself never thought it was very funny. But it was ordinary—a routine of sorts.

When Uncle Vernon came home today, though, he didn’t whistle any tune. He had a kind of stunned look on his face and didn’t take off his coat. He didn’t even reach out to give Harry a slap. Uncle Vernon’s odd behavior didn’t go unnoticed. Harry, Aunt Petunia, and even Dudley tried to steer clear of him.

Dinnertime, however, couldn’t be avoided, so Aunt Petunia and Dudley both hesitantly sat down at the table, Petunia motioning for Harry to stand in his usual position. When Uncle Vernon took a seat, still under some sort of shock, Dudley took it as a signal to start shoveling food into his mouth. After all, Dudley thought, food solved everything.

The rest of the family—Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, that is; Harry just stood there—began to eat, like civilized beings of course. The meal passed in silence, with Harry looking down at the floor willing his stomach not to growl, Dudley continuing to munch away, and Aunt Petunia shooting nervous glances at her husband.

Finally, she couldn’t bear the uncomfortable lack of noise any longer (or perhaps she grew a bit nauseous since the only thing she could watch was Dudley’s barbarism).

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia said timidly, “is there anything wrong?”

He raised his eyes from his food and looked at her, shaking his head slightly to clear it.

“I got demoted to one of the lowest positions in the company,” Uncle Vernon murmured, his eyes gradually focusing. The bewilderment gradually faded from his face, with anger and indignation slowly taking its place.

Aunt Petunia gasped, raising a hand to her mouth.

“It was one of those young, smart-ass brats,” he hissed, the pent up confusion and fury suddenly exploding. He banged a fist down on the dining table.

Dudley grunted in surprise as some of his food bounced out of his plate from the forceful impact, then turned back to eating.

“Came swaggering in only two days ago,” Uncle Vernon snapped, voice level gradually increasing, “and the boss gave him my job today; handed it to him just like that.”

His eyes grew wilder with every word.

“I deserved it!” he yelled. “I worked for ten years in that position, and now I’m ousted by some kid who’s just been hired?!”

‘Actually,’ Harry thought to himself, ‘you bribed people in order to stay in that position, but I guess I shouldn’t say that out loud since I’m probably going to be blamed for his demotion anyway.’

“There’s something wrong here,” Uncle Vernon continued, “It just doesn’t make any sense!”

His beady eyes roamed around the table, finally landing on Harry with an accusatory gaze.

‘Here it comes,’ Harry sighed while trying to look as innocent as possible.

“It’s the bloody freak’s fault!” his Uncle yelled, the scapegoat found.

‘I knew it,’ the boy muttered, defeated. ‘I’m doomed.’

Uncle Vernon stood, knocking his chair to the floor. “Come here, freak!” He grabbed Harry’s shirt and dragged him into the family room. “You’re going to get what’s been coming to you for a long time.”

Aunt Petunia and even Dudley watched riveted in their seats, unable to turn their eyes away. Uncle Vernon’s left hand held his nephew in place while his right punched Harry in the stomach, making him double over.

He clipped Harry in one eye, but Aunt Petunia shrilled, “Anywhere but the face, Vernon. He has to go to school tomorrow.”

‘I love you too, Aunt Petunia,’ Harry thought, mentally rolling his eyes.

Uncle Vernon glared at her words, but he focused his blows on the boy’s body. Harry hissed as he felt something crack—a rib?—but refused to cry out.

‘Hmm,’ his mind felt detached, ‘Uncle Vernon never went this far before…’

His Uncle seemed to get angrier at Harry’s silence. His crazed eyes bore into Harry’s own as the barrage increased. The large man gave an almighty punch to the boy’s midsection, accidentally letting go of his hold on Harry’s collar. Due to the force of the blow, Harry couldn’t help but fall straight backwards, heading straight for Aunt Petunia’s antique table.

His aunt screamed in warning. Uncle Vernon’s eyes widened, perhaps thinking of the cost of the thing, and did the first thing that came to mind—he grabbed Harry’s arm as hard as he could.

There was a crack.

Harry bit into his lip, tasting blood, as stars danced in front of his eyes. Was that crack just now his arm breaking? Well, whatever it was, it hurt! His uncle, startled at the sound and his nephew’s limp arm, let go of Harry’s arm in shock.

As his head banged into the table, he squeezed his eyes shut at the pain. ‘That helped, Uncle. Very smart; just let go of me…Well, at least the table didn’t break. Aunt Petunia would have killed me.’ He groaned softly as he rolled onto the ground and lay there to catch his breath.

“What do I do now?” Uncle Vernon yelled, slightly unnerved.

Aunt Petunia had run over to them and began screaming at her husband, “You broke his arm, Vernon! What did you do that for? What if they find out about him? Huh? You ever think of that?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he defended, but his eyes were nervous. “I was just trying to protect your bloody table!”

Aunt Petunia sighed, “He fell from the stairs, Vernon. Just hide him for a few days until it heals.” Her eyes stared into his.

Uncle Vernon licked his dry lips in apprehension. “Okay. It’ll work.” He took a deep breath and shakily grabbed Harry’s unharmed arm.

“Into the cupboard, boy,” he sneered, as he opened the small door and pushed Harry in. Harry watched through half-closed lids as the door closed. He could still hear his aunt and uncle bickering outside though.

Harry closed his eyes again, trying to block out the sound and the pain. He switched on the small light in his cupboard and slowly took out his mirror. He tried to focus on his face, attempting to forget what had just happened. He slowly turned into Oliver—his hair copper and his eyes a pale blue.

“My name is Oliver,” he began his mantra, but his voice slightly quavered. His arm hurt. He bit his lip. No, he was Oliver. Oliver was brave.

Rubbing his eyes stubbornly, he muttered, “I’m not gonna cry.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his uninjured left arm around them. He didn’t know if he could be Oliver tonight.

He rocked back and forth in the tiny space. “I’m not complaining,” he told himself softly, “I just…”

His eyelids felt heavy, and he blinked hard to try to open them. “Being Oliver is great. I just…”

His eyes slowly closed despite his efforts. “I just wish I could be with someone who would love me…”

He nodded off into an exhausted sleep, not even noticing the tiny pop as he disappeared from the small cupboard.