Whatever You Want {Drarry}

•Sharpening His Smile•

art credit (AndyTheLemon|tumblr)
{my edit}

Harry James Potter of Number 4 Privett Drive knew he was different.

It wasn't only because he had to fight off spiders and cobwebs to fit into his bed [read matress] that was shoved haphazardly into his bedroom [read cupboard under the stairs], but also because he looked so different too. It was hard to miss how different he looked during breakfast when they all reached for food with pale hands and he had to sit at the table and wait looking down at his stubbornly non-pale ones. His hands weren't even shaped the same. His aunt, Petunia, had hands just as thin as his, sure, but not nearly as dark, nor with fingers as long.

His hair was too messy and just as dark as the rest of him. The Dursleys all had light hair, ranging from a dirty blonde to a light brown, that was quickly turning gray.

Almost as if on cue, as though Harry would forget he wasn't like them, his Uncle Vernon spoke. As always his jab about Harry being a mutt, picked up from his sisters constant talk about dogs the last time she was there, was followed by an unflattering snort that only served to make him look further like a hog in Harry's opinion. It wasn't Harry's fault he was biracial, he hadn't even gotten to chance to know his parents. It was even less his fault that his teeth were so sharp.

He had learned as much in class. Sure strong and healthy teeth were a process and a lot of dental work was hereditary, the sharpness of ones teeth is both completely random and dependent on ones dietary habits. He remembered scoffing during class and being locked in his cupboard that night without dinner because his cousin, Dudley, had told on him.

The Dursleys stood and walked towards the door. It was Sunday and they are going to the cinema. Harry was to sit and stay. Like the good little watch dog they insisted he was.

He doesn't remember the last time he smiled. He guesses it was around the time he stopped laughing too. He used to smile s lot, but the kids were scared of him and the Dursleys were scared of what other people would think so he got a lashing and no dinner and he learned to only smile politely with his mouth closed. Lips pressed together as if even one millimeter of white between them would force all his secrets to spill out.

When Harry Potter turned 9 years old the front door to Number 4 Privett Drive was decimated. On the other side stood a tall ruffled and scarred looking man wearing a large wool jumper and laughing at an edgier man holding out a- stick?- wearing a leather jacket and what looked to be pajamas underneath.

Vernon Dursley hated weirdos. To be quite honest he hated all types that didn't fit in. He didn't understand why they were all out to get him. When Mr. Dursley came down the stairs at 11:32 pm on a Sunday night  after hearing his door get blown in, literally, he decidedly hated Sirius Black. Though, when the same vandal of a man pulled out paperwork to take away the little pest under his stairs, Vernon Dursley thought he may actually like the vagabond after all. If he noticed the two men holding hands as they waited for the boy to pack his things. What was it to him what those freaks did. As long as they were out of his house. They were all going to burn anyway.

Harry James Potter of Number 12 Grimmauld Place has just turned 11 years old and he's heading to diagon with his fathers, once his Hogwarts letter comes in and it's only then that the irony hits him. When he's surrounded by people and he won't talk or show his scar and he kind of whimpers when someone gets too close, that maybe he is a mutt, but his fathers are both strong dog types and he thinks that maybe it's okay.