Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it all belongs to Rowling.

Eternal Sunshine of the Scourgified Mind


The operator had been trying to persuade Vernon Dursley to accept the charges for Harry Potter's call for several minutes now.

Harry jammed a finger in his ear as a police car wailed along Charing Cross Road and he struggled to make out his uncle's voice, pressing the receiver against his other ear firmly.

"...oh for goodness sake, go on then but tell the boy it's to be for no longer than a minute."

Harry rolled his eyes at the sound of Uncle Vernon begrudgingly taking the call and pictured him looking at the second hand of his watch as the operator spoke to him again, sounding quite frustrated with Mr. Dursley herself.

"Mr. Potter?"

"I'm still here."

"Mr. Dursley's going to take your call but warns you to be quick; it sounds like he's not planning on chatting for too long."

"Bloody right!" Harry heard his uncle mutter.

"Just connecting you," the operator said.

Harry struggled to hear from his dingy phone booth at the roadside.

"Well?" Vernon Dursley snapped.

"Um, Uncle Vernon, I..." Harry trailed off, not quite sure how to explain his situation right now.

"What? What is it? I thought we were rid of you."

"I don't know what happened. I didn't run away or anything."

Although you couldn't really blame me if I had, Harry thought.

"I'm in London."

"Bully for you," Uncle Vernon grunted. "What the devil does that have to do with me?"

Harry hesitated. He was as confused about what he was saying as his uncle obviously was, but he still hadn't expected anything from him other than rage in the circumstances.

"Well, aren't you going to come and get me?"

"Get you?" The voice at the end of the line sounded incredulous. "Come and get you? So now that your bloody shambles of a school is done with you you expect to come back here and bring more misery to our lives with your 'Hocus Pocus'?"

Harry frowned,

"School?" he said, not finding it possible to be any more confused than he already was.

"What's wrong with your Weasel family eh? Why can't you pester them to pick you up? Or any of those other freaks you call friends, their phones out of order, are they?" Uncle Vernon sounded as if he was amplifying his conversation for the benefit of a curious Aunt Petunia and Dudley who were listening over his shoulder.

Harry rolled his eyes once more and let out a sigh. His uncle was clearly attempting humour, always a mistake, Harry thought to himself.

"Very funny, Uncle Vernon."

"Oh, of course, how ridiculous of me to assume that those friends of yours have simple devices like telephones, eh?"

What was his problem?

"Yeah ok, you've made your point; I don't have any friends to call. Please will you come and pick me up, Uncle Vernon? I'm stranded in London and I don't have any money."

Harry pulled what looked like a large gold medallion from his pocket and held it up to the slot where the coins were supposed to go into the payphone, his brow furrowing, as he wondered where it could be a souvenir from.

"Well, nothing you can actually spend, anyway. I just want to get home."

"Well go home then!"


"For crying out loud boy, you're a grown man, act your age. If you recall, you ungrateful little brat, I always said that you were out of this house for good as soon as you turned eighteen and that was weeks ago. So happy belated birthday, have a nice life and stay out of ours, goodbye!"

The line went dead.

Harry stood, telephone receiver still clamped to the side of his head, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping.

A car screeched on its breaks, there was a crash as a bike messenger was thrown to the ground in a twisted mess of broken limbs, a woman screamed and several people on the street took out mobile phones and dialled 999.

Harry noticed none of this. He was staring at his own reflection in the graffiti covered glass of the phone booth's door; the stubble on his chin, the hollowed out cheeks where baby fat used to be, the man who stared back at him in shock.

"I'm eighteen?"