Harry held the back of the kitchen chair with a white-knuckled grip after he finished setting the table on a Wednesday evening, trying to work up his courage. Better to ask now, before dinner, so that Dudley wouldn't have a chance to laugh at him again. "Aunt Petunia?"

"What?" she said crossly, not turning from the stove.

He swallowed hard. "I—I need to go to an optometrist."

"An optometrist," she snorted. "Who gave you that idea?"

"I need glasses," he said. "I can't read the board at school."

"What kind of boy needs glasses at eight years old?" she asked, banging a pan into the sink. Harry knew he wasn't supposed to answer this.

"Please," he said. "Mr. Morrins, the maths teacher, said I needed to have them. Can you talk to Uncle Vernon about it?"

"Talk to him yourself." Aunt Petunia sounded crosser than before as she went to the refrigerator, muttering to herself: "And he goes and brings a teacher into it. Manipulative little—"

Harry sighed. It wasn't that he wanted to visit an optometrist, after all. Glasses would be just one more thing for Dudley and his gang to make fun of him for, but he couldn't read maths problems off the board, even though he was only in the second row. He had been squinting as hard as he could all term and still copying them down wrong. His marks were dropping because of it, too. Harry couldn't bear the thought of being behind his stupid cousin in maths, but he knew better than to mention this factor to his aunt.

Aunt Petunia snapped at him to finish a few more tasks. By the time Harry had done these, Uncle Vernon and Dudley were settling down at the table, and he hurried to slip into his seat as Aunt Petunia served up the plates. Dudley's got heaped full, as always, and Harry's ended up with its usual somewhat-skimpy portion. He took it without a word, however, and started to eat nervously. When his aunt and uncle finally finished fawning over Dudley and asking about his day, he cleared his throat. There was nothing for it; the question would have to be asked in front of Dudley because seeking out his uncle later would only irritate him.

"Uncle Vernon?"

He was ignored. Uncle Vernon chewed on without looking at him. Harry, twisting his hands in his lap, was beginning to consider repeating himself when his uncle responded.

"What, boy?"

He cleared his throat again. "I need glasses."

Uncle Vernon stared at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"To see," Harry answered impatiently. Dudley seized the opportunity to chime in, chortling.

"He can't read the blackboard—or pretends he can't—makes a loon of himself in maths—"

"Please," Harry interrupted desperately, flushing at the remembered embarrassment, "my teacher told me to ask you for them—"

"After you made a fuss about it, of course," Uncle Vernon interrupted in turn.

"I didn't!" Harry insisted. "I've been doing my best…Mr. Morrins noticed on his own." Dudley could have borne witness to this, but Harry didn't trust him to tell the truth.

"The boy's making it all up, Vernon," said Aunt Petunia. "What sign's he ever shown of trouble with his eyes? He's just trying to wheedle us into taking him out for an afternoon and spending hard-earned money on him."

"We'll get him a pair of reading glasses from the corner store," said Uncle Vernon, "and make him wear them. See if that shuts him up."

"I don't need reading glasses," cried Harry. "I read just fine! I can't see the board at school!"

"Don't shout at the table," said Uncle Vernon, "or I'll send you to your cupboard."

The glare that accompanied this statement, letting Harry know that the threat applied more to talk of glasses than to shouting at the table, served to keep him quiet about the matter for a few days. He continued to be laughed at in maths class and any other class which required him to read off a blackboard; however, he was laughed at often enough anyways that he told himself it didn't really matter. On Friday, Mr. Morrins asked him to stay after class.

"Have you talked to your parents about those glasses, young man?"

"My aunt and uncle," Harry corrected automatically. "And, yes, I did, but…they don't seem to think I need them."

"Don't think you need them!" Mr. Morrins cried. "Harry Potter, you are the blindest student of your age I've ever laid eyes on. I'm surprised you don't run into things when you walk."

He looked down. "But they don't believe me."

Mr. Morrins thought for a moment. "Go to the school nurse at lunch. She can write a note to your parents saying that you need to visit an optometrist."

"My aunt and uncle," he repeated again, hollowly. "All right, I'll go." As long as Dudley and his gang didn't catch him at lunch.

When Harry came home with his note from the nurse, won by half an hour of having to continually admit to being unable to perform any of the visual exercises put to him, the Dursleys were not happy. However, as the nurse hinted that it would be indicative of extreme neglect not to make Harry an eye appointment, Aunt Petunia grudgingly called the nearest place. Harry eavesdropped on her conversation from outside the kitchen door. His heart leapt when he heard that there was an available appointment on Monday, but Aunt Petunia turned it down—with a stifled sigh, he remembered that she was having some friend of hers over for tea that day. Thursday was the next time offered, and Harry crossed his fingers.

"Might as well get the business over with," he heard her mutter to herself. Then her voice resumed its louder, bright, overly-friendly tone. "Yes, Thursday will be fine. Three forty-five, you said? Yes, we'll be there. Goodbye."

Harry, hardly believing his luck, scrambled away from the door as she came out. Less than a week. He could make it that long, certainly.

Still, it was a long and frustrating week. Dudley seemed to find more excuses than ever to hit him, and Uncle Vernon sent him to his cupboard for the smallest things, which meant he missed dinner three times. But he made it to Thursday, when Aunt Petunia, looking sour, took him to his appointment and filled out his paperwork, continually snapping at him to stop being so jittery. Harry tried, but he was nervous.

After a long wait, an assistant called him back. The tests at the office were worse than the tests he'd had with the school nurse, and for one of them he had to have eye drops. These made him flinch and nearly cry, something he was glad Aunt Petunia hadn't come back with him to see.

At the end of it, when they'd decided on the prescription he'd need, they sent him out to rejoin Aunt Petunia and look at frames. She immediately picked up the cheapest pair and handed them to him.

"You'll get these."

Harry put them on. They were very round and he could see in the little mirror that they made his face look thinner than ever. It was no use even trying to argue with Aunt Petunia, though—he'd have glasses; he'd be able to see for school; that was what mattered.

Dudley will laugh, said a little voice in the back of his head as he put the frames back on the rack and waited for Aunt Petunia to fill out the last bit of paperwork. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the mirror for a moment to see the revealed scar. Dudley always laughs, he told himself. A different kind of glasses wouldn't fix that.

They went home, with the promise that the glasses would be ready in a week. Harry made it through school by hoping for their speedy arrival.

They came a day early, on Wednesday. Aunt Petunia went to pick them up while Harry was at school. When he came through the kitchen upon returning, they were sitting on the table. Slowly, he picked them up, unfolded them, and put them on.

The world changed. He could read the magnets on the refrigerator. The counters had sharp edges. Turning around, he could see all the way down the hall. Colors were brighter.

Dudley came in. Harry was shocked at how ludicrously ugly his face was. After staring a moment, he ran to the door to look out at the street. Individual blades of grass—details on the house across the street—numbers on mailboxes—from the doorstep, he could read the license plate on the car!

Harry laughed, suddenly and joyfully.

"Get in here!" came Aunt Petunia's shrill voice. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm getting used to my new glasses," Harry said, coming back into the kitchen without hiding his smile. "I can see everything—they're like magic."

"MAGIC!" she shouted, whirling on him. "They're glasses! Not magic! Don't be so stupid!"

He dropped his head, feeling frustrated. "I know they're not magic," he said. "It was just—they make a big difference. Thank you for buying them."

"Hmph," she answered. "Make sure you thank your uncle, too."

"I will." Harry turned to go. In the hallway, Dudley caught him, snorting with laughter.

"You look dumb."

"So do you," Harry replied. He darted for the door of his cupboard, but Dudley punched him in the nose before he could escape. Water sprang into his eyes, but his first thought was his glasses, which were falling off. He took them in his hands and looked at them. They were bent badly.

Fleeing Dudley's laughter, he slipped into his cupboard, turned on the light, and sat down on the bed, trying to work his glasses back into shape. Periodically, he rubbed his sore nose—he could see in the old mirror that was kept on one of the cupboard shelves that the bridge of the glasses had left a red imprint under the impact of Dudley's fist. It hurt, but not as much as the thought that his glasses might be ruined before he could even use them. Eventually, though, he maneuvered them into wearable shape and settled them back on his face. They didn't sit as comfortably as they had before…still, the world came quickly into focus, blurred though it was by his standing tears. He pushed the glasses up to quickly wipe these away, then looked back at the mirror.

Dudley was right, he thought, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. With the lenses in, he could see that the frames really did look stupid, big and gawky on his thin, pale face and awkwardly emphasizing his green eyes. He was a scrawny, pitiful-looking boy, and now he would be teased about his appearance more than ever. No other boy in his year wore glasses…certainly not ones that looked like this.

He brushed his hair away from his eyes. There was his scar. With his glasses on, it struck him as stranger than ever—so thin, so precise. How did that happen in a car accident?

Harry thought of the flash of green light which came to him in his dreams and the burning pain in his head that accompanied it, the pain that must have left his scar. His aunt and uncle hated that scar, because no normal person had one like it.

He rubbed his sore nose again. Hopefully it wasn't going to swell up this time. But he was going to wear those glasses, whether it did or not…Harry lifted his chin and looked at himself firmly.

"I don't care if I don't look like a normal kid," he said in a quiet but resolute voice. "I like my scar, and I'll like my glasses too. No matter how many times Dudley laughs."

He straightened his shoulders and came out of the cupboard, glasses settled firmly on his face, and found his uncle to thank him.

"You should be grateful," said Uncle Vernon. "I spent good money on those. You cost too much, boy."

Harry clenched his jaw. "The motor scooter you bought Dudley last week cost more."

"Dudley," Uncle Vernon responded, going red with anger, "is our son. What's more, he's a good boy, with none of your oddities. You're too demanding…you don't know your place."

"But I hadn't asked for anything in months," Harry said quietly, "not even candy. And Dudley—"

"Don't you dare speak ill of Dudley!" Uncle Vernon advanced on him, grabbing his shoulder. Harry flinched.

"All right," he said. "I won't. I'm sorry."

His uncle shook him. "Another word, and I'll take those glasses right back to get a refund. Now go to your cupboard."

He bit his lip. "I—can I go to school in the morning? I have a test."

"Don't ask questions." The familiar phrase. "Just go." Uncle Vernon shoved him towards the hall, and Harry shuffled away to his cupboard.

He lay awake long into the night, his stomach unwilling to let him ignore the fact that he'd been allowed no dinner. His nose was still sore, too…when the house had been silent for a long time, Harry decided to slip out and go to the bathroom, then see if he could grab something to eat. When he reached for the doorknob, however, it wouldn't turn. After struggling with it for several minutes, he sank back against his lumpy pillow.

They had locked him in. Without his noticing, too…Harry swatted at a spider that was lowering itself towards his face. Why? That usually only happened for long punishments, and he had hardly done anything…but then, he had known his uncle would be edgy, and should have known better than to provoke him even a little.

He groaned a bit, turning onto his side. He really needed the toilet, but he'd have to wait until morning—if they didn't let him out for school, he'd at least bang on the door until they let him use the bathroom. For now, he'd have to do his best to go to sleep in spite of it. He folded his glasses and rested them carefully on a shelf as he closed his eyes.

When Harry finally fell asleep at some unknown, weary hour of the night, he dreamed that his glasses really were magic—that with them on, he could see through the walls of his cupboard and watch the Dursleys roaming about the house or see what Dudley was watching on television. He dreamed that they let him see people's thoughts and memories, that he found out from Aunt Petunia's mind what his mother looked like and that she was very kind and beautiful. In the dream, he found out that there were people at school who thought they might like to be his friend, but were just afraid of Dudley and his gang. But when Harry let it show that he'd read Dudley's mind, too, his cousin grabbed the glasses away and crushed the lenses beneath his heel…

He woke with a start. Aunt Petunia was banging on his door. "I'm getting up!" he called, hoping to stifle her shouts. Sitting up reluctantly, he dug around for clothes and picked up his glasses. As soon as he was dressed, he darted off to use the toilet.

He helped with breakfast, as ordered, and sat down to eat, keeping quiet with his head lowered. The glasses were still marvelous, and he enjoyed the drive to school when it was time to go, staring out the windows at the colorful, newly-detailed trees of mid-autumn. He couldn't help thinking about his dream. Not the part about his mother; that was too sensitive to dwell on. But what if there was someone at school…what if…

They pulled up in front of the drab brick building, and Harry clambered out, separating from Dudley as quickly as he could. He walked quickly towards his first classroom, not looking at anyone…but that didn't keep him from hearing the laughter, the insults coming from every direction.

"Just when I didn't think he could look any more pathetic, he goes and gets glasses…"

"Gosh, he has weird eyes, doesn't he. The glasses make them look so big."

"He's Harry Potter. Why did you ever expect him not to look dumb?"

Folding his arms defensively around himself, he turned into the classroom and sat down at his desk. The girl next to him looked over.

"Hey, I like your glasses."

His eyes widened and his heart leapt as he scanned her (oh! so detailed) face for any hint of mockery. "Really?"

"Yeah," she said, and then her mouth twitched cruelly. "They hide some of your face!"

She burst into convulsive giggles, and so did a number of the students around them. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, berating himself for believing her. He should have known better…he should have known there was no one at school who would dare offer him a compliment, even if they wanted to…he just should have known. He'd been trusting in that dream of his, but it was only a dream after all, just like every good thing he'd ever had.

And not even the dream had stayed good.

Harry shuddered, realizing that eventually Dudley's gang would find him again, and they certainly wouldn't leave him alone about the glasses. In fact, they probably wouldn't leave the glasses themselves alone. If one punch from Dudley had bent them last night, a full session of Harry Hunting could make fixing them a huge job. Maybe he'd be able to hide them in his bookbag or his pocket when the gang came after him.

He worried about this all through the morning's classes, unable to focus properly even on his test. At lunch, he spent fifteen minutes in the dining hall, sitting off in a corner and getting through his meal as quickly as he could, then slipped into the corridor. Unfortunately, Piers saw him doing this.

"Hey, Harry!"

Harry fled, not waiting to hear what he'd say next. Piers leapt after him, catching him by the arm. "Hey, Dudley, you were right! He looks stupider than ever!"

Harry wrenched his arm away, fixing Piers with a terrified but angry stare. "Yeah, but now I can see you for how stupid you look, too."

There was a roar at this, and the rest of the gang came tumbling out of the dining hall. Again, Harry turned to run.

He got through the back door of the school, out near the dumpsters, but they were close behind him. One of them, making a huge effort, lunged at him and grabbed the back of his baggy shirt. The momentum worked against Harry and he fell onto the pavement, one hand out to break his fall and the other shielding his face…

The impact winded him badly, and it was a moment before he even tried to get back up. By that point, they had surrounded him. Slowly, Harry rose, not daring to take off his glasses lest they realize how much he cared about keeping them safe. One of his knees was bleeding—a scab from last week had gotten ripped off—and his hand was badly scraped. With the other, he tremblingly pushed his glasses up on his still-aching nose.

Suddenly, his arms were being pulled behind his back. He struggled wildly against Piers' grip, but it was no good. They closed in on him with mocking words that he tried to block out, and then Dudley was raising his fist.

Harry swung his head, trying to avoid the trajectory of the blow. Dudley's fist made contact with the side of his head instead of with his jaw. Seizing the moment of his cousin's confusion, Harry stomped on Piers' foot. His arms came loose, and he ran, finding refuge in a dark classroom. There, he sat down on the floor and used the bottom of his shirt to stop the bleeding from his knee.

Leaning his head against the wall, he sighed. At least his glasses were still intact.

Harry spent the rest of the school day trying to avoid Dudley's gang, and just about everything else as well. The only time he relaxed a bit was in maths, when he could confidently read from the blackboard. Some of the kids sniggered behind their hands, noticing his glasses for the first time, but at least they couldn't say that he couldn't do maths—and Mr. Morrins actually smiled at him as he raised his hand to answer a question. That smile got Harry through the rest of the day.

He left school as quickly as he could when classes were over, deciding to walk home—it wasn't far, after all, and perhaps this way he'd be able to avoid Dudley. Dudley never walked anywhere if he could help it. In fact—Harry snickered to himself—he'd probably ride a motored wheelchair around school if he could convince everyone that it was cool.

He turned up the driveway and went into the kitchen. Aunt Petunia wasn't there. She must be in the lounge, Harry decided, hearing the television. As he was aching for privacy, he went to his cupboard, flipped on the light, and shut the door behind him.

There was homework he knew he should be doing, but for now even the thought of it was too much. Instead, he lay on his back with his eyes shut. Insults rang in his head; pain pulsed in various parts of his body…would things never change at school? If only he could somehow leave the Dursleys', run away maybe. Didn't he have any grandparents, any other aunts or uncles? There had to be someone, somewhere in this world, who would come for him someday. Everything was going to change; he'd forget about the Dursleys and never have to see them again…

Harry took off his glasses and held them tightly in one hand. I'll leave someday, he promised himself. Even if I have to leave all by myself.