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.
And Harry would’ve been
fine, would’ve gladly helped Draco to put their boxes filled with stuff they
didn’t really need but wanted to keep nonetheless inside any other room – the
attic, the scary basement, even the ‘sex bedroom’, as Draco had dubbed it when
they’d been looking around the house for the first time.
Anything, except the
fucking cupboard under the stairs.
As soon as he saw the
door he’d recoiled, hitting his head on the ceiling on his jump, whilst the
heavy box of old Potion journals of Draco hit the floor with a loud thud.
Everything inside Harry
screeched to a halt, as if he’d somehow jumped on the emergency break, and when
he’d moved away properly that he wasn’t able to touch the door, he just stared.
It’s just a door, he firmly reminded himself. It’s just a wooden door that leads to a
simple, small room that just happens to be underneath a set of stairs.
But he couldn’t
It’s just a room, he thought, feeling as though
something was crawling from the inside of his stomach up in his body, making it
more and more difficult to focus on logical thought, but it’s a fucking cupboard.
Before he was able to
stop himself he let out a whimpering sound – almost a moan and a cry in one,
and it was loud, too, echoing through the small hall and up and up and up the
stairs and –
Slam. “Harry?” came Draco’s voice from upstairs. “You okay?”
He wanted to yell back,
but he couldn’t.
He wasn’t okay.
It was a cupboard under the stairs.
“Harry?” Draco repeated
When Harry didn’t
answer, Draco sighed, and he finally appeared on the top of the stairs. He just
looked down for a minute, staring at the box – the journals had slipped out
during their fall – and then at Harry, who kept staring at the door as if that
might set it on fire.
Then, as if someone had
flipped a switch, Draco came thundering down the stairs, jumped over the
journals, and wrapped Harry up in his arms.
It was only then that
Harry realized he’d been crying.