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Harry was four years old when he realised there was something not quite right about him. It was Saturday, which meant Uncle Vernon would be sitting on the couch and watching rugby on the telly. Uncle Vernon really liked rugby — the only things he liked better than rugby were selling drills and punishing Harry. Since he couldn’t sell drills on Saturday, Uncle Vernon would punish Harry if he couldn’t watch rugby. Harry knew this. Dudley also knew this.
Harry should’ve known something was wrong when he hadn’t been punished the whole day. He had let his hopes up, thought maybe he could just be happy for once. When three o’clock came and still nothing had happened to him, Harry had dared to smile, dared to hope. It was his own fault, really, when Dudley had thrown the remote in the rubbish. Harry should’ve known better than to smile around Dudley.
Four o’clock came, and Uncle Vernon sat down on his usual place on the couch and reached for the remote that was always, always in the same place, except it wasn’t. Because it was in the trash, Dudley had put it there. Uncle Vernon had rounded on Harry, who had been hiding in the kitchen, trying furiously to think of a way to fish the remote out of the trash without Uncle Vernon or Dudley noticing (Dudley had squatted near the trash the whole hour before Uncle Vernon came home with his baseball bat, taunting Harry).
“BOY!” Uncle Vernon had shouted, “WHERE’S THE REMOTE?”
Harry couldn’t tell him what Dudley did, of course. Uncle Vernon wouldn’t believe him, and he’d get twice the thrashing for slandering Dudley.
“I don’t know, sir,” Harry had said, “I haven’t seen it, sir,” (Harry had to call Uncle Vernon “sir” and Aunt Petunia “ma’am” and he wouldn’t get dinner if he didn’t use “proper English” not that he got dinner anyway )
"WELL YOU BETTER FIND IT!” Uncle Vernon had shouted, not bothering with a threat. Harry knew what was going to happen to him anyway.
Harry glanced at Dudley, who had shifted close enough to the rubbish bin that there was no way Harry could sneak past him without getting beat. “Yes, sir,” Harry said, “I’ll find it in five minutes, sir,” Uncle Vernon always wanted a deadline.
“I BETTER SEE IT IN THREE OR ELSE!” (Uncle Vernon never talked at a normal volume; he thought that being loud made him more impressive)
That gave Harry three minutes to prepare himself for the beating. He eyed the door of his cupboard. If he ran for it, he’d be safe in his cupboard — Aunt Petunia was too tall to fit, Uncle Vernon and Dudley too fat. Of course, he’d just be delaying the inevitable.
Harry went to search despite knowing it was futile. He had to look like he was trying so Uncle Vernon wouldn’t get suspicious. He pretended to search the cabinets and the tables, then dug his hand under the couch cushions, doing his best to ignore Uncle Vernon sitting not two feet away from him. To his shock, something distinctly remote-shaped nudged his fingers.
That wasn’t the first time Harry had found something that was supposed to be lost. Or rather, this wasn’t the first time something lost had found Harry. Harry could recall several occasions when he had been doing mundane things trying to be normal, trying to fit in, trying not to be a freak when something had bumped against his ankle or brushed past his fingers (Harry remembered one instance when he swore a wooden doll had jumped into his hands). He had a whole collection of lost things sitting underneath a loose tile in his cupboard.
But this time was different because Harry was sure the remote hadn’t been there seconds before; he had seen with his own eyes Dudley tossing the remote into the rubbish. Nonetheless, he pulled the object out from under the cushions and discovered that it was, indeed, the lost remote. Dudley looked like he was having a stroke. Uncle Vernon had grunted, looking disappointed that he wouldn’t be punishing Harry.
Harry had been confused but elated (later, he had been punished anyway when Dudley shattered a plate and blamed it on Harry)
That night, when Harry was shut in his cupboard, he had pried open the loose tile and gazed at his collection. When none of them moved, not even the doll, Harry had shaken his head and went to bed telling himself firmly that he was just imagining things. When Dudley tried the same trick the next Saturday and Harry found the remote yet again, however, Harry admitted that maybe there was something not-normal about him.
(Harry had cried himself to sleep that night with the word “freak” ringing in his ears)