Petunia knew that there was something deeply wrong with her nephew. Perhaps it was the way he never cried, or never threw a tantrum. Perhaps it was how Vernon forgot his anger in his presence, all thoughts about complaining about the freakish boy gone. Or maybe even how she found she could not speak a word against him, even when she so sorely wanted to rant and rave against his unnaturalness. Petunia was not so sure if she truly could not speak or if she simply did not want to. In times like these, Petunia told herself that she was doing the freak a favor. It would do no one any favors if there was no peace in the house. At least, that was what she told herself.
Harry knew that he was special.
No other 12-year-olds he knew could do the things he could. Mrs. Thompson in physics class was very sure that the laws of physics were immutable. Harry knew different. Jumping onto the roof was not possible. But Harry knew he could. But that was not the only reason he was special. Most boys his age only dreamed of a world that could never be, a world where they would be the heroes. Through the haze of his mind, Harry had seen himself a hero. Merlin, they called him. A wizard. That too, was something Mrs. Thompson would never believe. So when a giant of a man had shown up at his door, shouting "Harry! – Yer a wizard!", he had wanted to roll his eyes and ask what had taken so long.