Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

Song Recommendation(s): "People Like Us" by Kelly Clarkson

Updated: 9/15/2017 1926 CST (Post Judging of both Houses & Hogwarts) for editorial mistakes.

Author's Note(s): This piece was written for a challenge in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (Challenges & Assignments) on the FFN forum.
The Challenge Information:
Hogwarts House: Gryffindor
Houses House: Hufflepuff
Hogwarts Subject [Task No.]: Domestic Magic [Task 02: Cleaning Up a Mess]
Houses Category: Bonus Round 03 [Third Person, past tense]
Prompt[s]: Discovering one's magic; Obliviate [action]
Word Count: 2184 (Just Story); 2203 (Story Plus Epigraph)

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Nothing Lasts Forever

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"It's hard to get high when you're living on the bottom." – Kelly Clarkson, People Like Us

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Harry knew the Rules, even if they weren't explicitly stated like the rules at school. He knew that he shouldn't be experimenting like he was. He knew that if any of his relatives—if anyone—caught him, the punishment would be severe. The freakishness was not supposed to be explored. It was not supposed to be used.

But he was curious and bored.

He had been sent to his cupboard immediately after Aunt Petunia had read the note about his teacher's hair turning blue. He had only been let out a couple of times to use the bathroom, as usual for these little exiles. He managed to sneak a couple of mouthfuls of water each time, but there was nothing he could do about food. On the second day of his punishment is when he began to really think about the possibility of it.

It wasn't the first time that his aunt and uncle had implied that something impossible had been his fault. There had been that thing with the jumper shrinking as Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into it. There had also been the haircut that had grown out overnight. Occasionally, if a burn or cut was exceptionally bad, they would tingle for a moment before healing in front of his eyes. All of those things had earned him a punishment, which would only make sense if it was something he was doing.

Freak would fit if that was true, but if Harry was the one behind it all, he didn't know how he was doing it. In the darkness of the cupboard, Harry wondered if maybe he could learn to control the freakishness. Would it be like toilet training, where a child had to learn to control some hidden part of themselves so that they didn't have any more accidents? If it was, would he also need to let out the freakishness occasionally?

Harry knew that he shouldn't try what he was contemplating. He knew it was against the Rules and his stomach was already forgetting what it felt like to have anything in it other than the occasional bit of water. If the Dursleys figured out what he was doing, he knew the punishment would be far worse. It was just that while he disliked his long list of chores, he was used to having the occupation. Boredom was not something he was used to handling. There was always something to do for him, unless he was stuck in his cupboard like he was now. What should he start with in his experiment?

He shifted on his little cot. The darkness pressed in around him, not even broken by light leaking around the door. When he lifted a hand, he couldn't see it, not even when he could feel it a few inches away from the tip of nose. It would be nice to see—if he could see in his cupboard, then he could maybe read the instructions of the cleaning supplies or later, possibly sneak a book in (Dudley had plenty that he just dumped onto the toddler bed in his second bedroom for Harry to sort onto the bookshelves, so it shouldn't be hard). It would be something to do, to ease the boredom.

How did the freakishness always work before? He hadn't really paid attention in the past, too scared or frustrated or just plain upset. The only clue he had was the tingle that came before healing, but that may have been just because those injuries had always hurt so much. It remained the best place to start, unfortunately.

Harry cupped his hands like he was gathering water. Focusing on his palms, he imagined the tingle growing and puddling. In fits—like the syrup after Dudley had put it into the fridge, all slow and difficult—he managed to produce a kind of glowing mist. A door slammed on the first floor and the mist broke as if exposed to sunlight. It wasn't much, but it was start.

It may be freakishness, but it was his in a way that none of the Dursleys could ever take from him.

And the possibilities were endless.

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There were rules and then there were the Rules.

It had been a few months since Harry had broken the unspoken Rule about exploring his freakishness. He had managed a lot of different tricks in that time. He could lift things now, which had made some of his chores a lot easier. The first thing he had noticed was that the freakishness got easier to use—both stronger and faster to respond—the more he used it. So far he had stuck by the assumption that his aunt would not want any of her belongings affected by his tricks.

He shivered as he looked around the laundry room again miserably, already picturing the punishment he would receive if Aunt Petunia saw the state of it when she got back from taking Dudley and his gang out for pizza. Harry didn't know which one of the boys had added the colored socks (or maybe he had just missed one—he had been so careful since that first time but mistakes happened, right?), but now all of Aunt Petunia's perfectly white undergarments were medicine pink. It was horrible and there was not a way to fix the mess without either more time or his freakishness. He had just figured out how to move a stain out of something the other day.

He twisted his hands together. His stupid brain jumping from scenario to scenario, measuring the factors. Making a decision shouldn't be this hard or drawn-out. No one else had this problem with their choices. The grandfather clock in the hall tolled the hour ominously.

Harry snapped into action. With wiggling fingers, he called the stain from the delicate fabric. He had just figured out the way a few days prior, while he sped through the chemistry book he had found in the library while hiding from Dudley's desire for a round of Harry Hunting. The red coloring hung in the air swirling idly like water in a stream. Unable to think of anything else to do with it, Harry silently told it to go away like he did the few leftovers that lasted long enough to go bad.

When Aunt Petunia and Dudley finally returned home, the lingerie was carefully fold and put away—and brilliantly white once more.

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Harry Hunting had rules, just like any other aspect of Harry's existence. He was allowed to run and hide, and even stay that way until Dudley ran out of time to find him, but he wasn't allowed to fight back. If he fought back, he might hurt Dudley and that only meant bad things when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon found out, as they inevitably would because Dudley would make sure of it. So Harry made certain that he never did more than run, not even when it became increasingly clear that his freakishness could do so much more to defend him than hide him or get him further away than he could have possibly run.

He never would have fought back on his own. If it had been his decision, he would have continued on as he had been all his life. It wasn't a great life. He was stupid, but not enough that he couldn't recognize that the Dursleys were bitter, miserable people. He already had a tentative countdown going until he could finally get away successfully. Once he was out, he would make sure to never come back to Little Whinging. Hell, he was already planning to avoid all of Surrey if he could.

Harry had never intended to hurt anyone—least of all with the freakishness that had always jumped to fulfill his requests, even back when he was just beginning to explore it. The freakishness was very much like an eager puppy wanting nothing more than to please its master. He should have recognized the danger of that analogy, after spending so many years being attacked by Ripper. He should have thought about how sometimes the freakishness reacted to things other than Harry's commands—how it had been the accidents which had prompted him to begin his exploration in the first place.

He should have thought about the safety of others, instead of his own selfish desire to alleviate his boredom and to shirk his responsibilities.

In the end, it was all his fault and Harry knew it.

He watched from the doorway of Dudley's hospital room as Aunt Petunia cried over his cousin's bruised and broken body, trembling from the emotions running through him. He hadn't meant to throw Dudley into the side of the school building. He had intended to just accept the beating that meant the end to a round of Harry Hunting. His magic had reacted beyond his control, a vicious dog protecting its owner. It curled around his form now, both pleased with its success and confused about why its master was so upset.

It twitched as a man stepped out of the elevator at the end of the hallway, and Harry turned to see what had caught its attention. The man was dressed in a suit which would have fit better in the era surrounding World War II than it did currently. In the artificial lighting of the hospital, his white hair and beard gleamed. Even from this far away, Harry could tell that the man's blue eyes held a knowing twinkle. No one acknowledged the man as he approached, not even the surly nurse who had glared at Aunt Petunia's wailing when she had first arrived. Harry's freakishness bristled as something about the man brushed against it.

"Ah, there you are, my boy," the man said. Harry cocked his head to the side at the man's friendly familiarity. Not many people had ever seemed happy to see Harry, and Aunt Petunia had been particularly livid when she arrived. He deserved the anger, and the punishment which would happen when he got home. He did break the Rules, not just once but often. He just wasn't looking forward to any of it. As if reading Harry's mind, the man's expression shifted to one of deep disappointment. "You have been exceptionally naughty, young Harry."

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry answered. He didn't know the man—had never seen him around Little Whinging or the rare trips to other places that the Dursleys bothered with taking Harry along. But an apology is what the Dursleys expected him to offer, so an apology is what he would give. Since the strange man had the bit of freakishness in him, Harry could be more detailed in that apology! That would help, right? "I didn't mean to do it! It just happened! I know that I shouldn't have been practicing with the power—but I thought that it could help with my chores. I didn't mean for this to happen! I swear!"

"My dear boy, what did you think would happen? Rules are meant to be followed, no matter who we are or our destinies of greatness. They are put in place for the Greater Good, which must be preserved regardless of our personal feelings."

"I don't understand, sir," Harry said, his eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to not cry. The man looked sympathetic but still seemed to be drawing something out of his sleeve. It was a stick, smooth and stained crimson. A tiny pattern of golden waves spiraled the length of it. The man sighed as he lifted the object like a conductor's baton.

"You don't need to, my boy. You won't even remember that I was here or how to exercise your precocious control over your magic. Tis a pity I cannot let you keep that, but it would create too many questions when it is time for you to return. Look into my eyes, Harry."

"Sir?" Harry questioned softly as he obeyed. He barely heard the strange word that the man spoke before his world dissolved into an ever-darkening blue.

"Obliviate!"

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Harry woke up in the darkness of his cupboard. His entire body ached but he couldn't remember what he had done to earn a punishment this time. He tried to sit up, only to fail because of how stiff his ribs were. He quickly decided that maybe it would be best to just lay there for a bit.

He had the ridiculous wish that he had a little light to keep him company. He could almost picture how helpful a little ball of floating glow would make the cupboard a little bit better. It would allow him to read the book he had snuck home the other day. Harry furrowed his forehead, suddenly confused. Why would he bring a book into the cupboard? That was even stupider than Dudley's continued difficulties with counting.

It wasn't like he could just make light pool in his hands. He couldn't lift things or change their colors. That would be magic and the Dursleys were quite clear about such flimflam.

Magic was not real, and even if it was Harry couldn't do such a freakish thing.

It was against the Rules.

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An Ending
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