i’ve been thinking a lot about smol ambiguously biracial harry and the mirror of erised.
because he’s spent his whole life with the dursleys in their proper square house in their proper square neighborhood with their uniformly manicured lawns and their contempt of anything other.
his aunt glares at him when the barber fails to tame his hair and yanks at it too hard when she takes her own scissors to it later. he sees the brief flicker of surprise in the eyes of the teachers at school when they find out he and dudley are cousins. he looks at his pale blonde aunt and vaguely wonders how her sister could produce someone like him (olive skinned? that’s what an old woman at the grocer’s called him once anyway) but he doesn’t dare to ask these questions. it’s just how it is, harry thinks, maybe he’s just different (he’s used to being different).
when he’s ten he gets a letter addressed especially to him, and when he’s eleven he looks up into a strange mirror it feels like he was meant to find and he’s looking at his parents for the first time in his life and his mother is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, prettier than he’d even imagined, and his father…his father looks like him. james is darker and taller and sharp with adulthood but his hair sticks up at the back and his hands are so very familiar and his cheekbones are the same ones harry’s seen in the mirror every day of his life and something deep inside him falls into place.
because he doesn’t look exactly like his mum and he doesn’t look exactly like his dad but now he knows why. he looks like a bit of both of them and it’s proof that they lived, that they came together and made him, with his dark hair and light eyes and skin that he’s never felt quite comfortable in.
and maybe he never belonged with the dursleys and maybe that hurts more than he’s willing to admit but he suddenly thinks it matters just a little bit less, because now he knows for certain that he damn well did belong to james and lily potter.