Harry Potter was four years old when he realized he could do things nobody else could. He could make things that he wanted come to him, if he wanted to. He had been able to take one of Dudley’s soldiers—it had been on the shelf one second, in his hands the next.
He was six when realized that this gift he had was magic, and seven when he learned that this gift only got him in trouble with his Aunt and Uncle. He was scared.
Harry was also seven when he started to repress his gift. It wasn’t a gift, really, but a curse. It made his family hate him.
He was nine years old when the outbursts stopped. His curse was finally gone, he wasn’t a freak anymore! Maybe his family would love him now.
He was nine and a half when his uncle began to hit him. They didn’t love him.
He was ten when black smoke began to seep out of his body. Was his curse back? Thankfully it only seemed to happen when he was mad.
Harry was almost eleven when the blackness consumed him fully. The shadows sucked him in, and he let them. He didn’t care anymore.
Harry was elevens years old, and he did not get a letter. No owl came to deliver any news. Instead, he had seeped into the shadows of the cupboard.
Harry was twelve when his house caught fire, the Dursleys perishing along with the house. It wasn’t his fault, really. He just gave a little nudge.
Harry was thirteen when his consciousness faded fully.
The Obscurus was three years old when it fully took over it’s hosts body.