A/N: Written for the Duct Tape Competition.
Prompt: Blue Leopard
"If people could see me the way I see myself- if they could live in my memories- would anyone love me?"
-John Green
You're a monster.
Your parents reassure you that you're not. Even your older brothers, in their own annoying way, include you in the family, ruffle your hair and pat you on the back. But you know the truth. How can you not? Your tie says it all, in green and silver.
A Slytherin. There's never been a Slytherin in your family. Even Albus, who you were secretly certain would end up there, was instead plopped down in Ravenclaw. James in Gryffindor, of course, brazen and foolhardy.
And then there's you. The youngest. The only girl. In Slytherin. When the Hat first yelled it out, James leaped up and called you a traitor. He apologised later, said his mouth got ahead of his thoughts, but the fact remains, doesn't it? Even your own brother thinks there's something wrong with you, and it burns inside, where nothing can put it out. You're a monster, and that's all there is to it.
You wonder how this could have happened. The Hat said you were clever. Resourceful. Ambitious. The words drip like acid into your overly sensitive ears and warp into twisted parodies of themselves. Sneaking, sly snake. That's all you are now, and even your last name can't save you from that fact.
You used to slip into your brothers' room when they were downstairs and everyone thought you were asleep, searching for candies or the latest wizarding gossip magazine (despite all of James's protests to the contrary, you've known about his subscription to Wands, Oh My! since you were five), once even managing to clamber out of the window and into your own room so you didn't get caught. Is that how you ended up in the House of Snakes?
You wanted to be the Minister of Magic when you were eight. You would put on your mum's old school robes, the sleeves rolled up five times while you tripped over the hem, and pretended to hold meetings in the parlour with Roxanne Weasley and a long-suffering older brother (whichever you could corner at the time). Can you be the Minister if your badge reads Slytherin?
When you were ten, you told St. Nicholas in the longest letter you'd penned to date that you wanted a younger sister to boss around, because you were tired of James and Al doing it to you. Your mum read it, laughed, bopped you on the nose, and told you it was out of the cards, but you might get a doll instead. You didn't want a doll, though. You couldn't teach a doll how to get back at your older brothers, or how it feels to run around outside in the snow, sticking your tongue out to catch the snowflakes. Maybe if you'd wanted a doll, this wouldn't have happened.
Your year-mate, Selene Malfoy, drags you out of the dormitory, kicking and protesting, trying to hide the green-and-silver tie, the badge that proclaims you the treasonous Potter. And you discover-as you go through your classes, as you nearly blow up the Potions lab and manage to turn your professor's hair virulent blue in Charms-that maybe, just maybe...
You're the only one who cares.