When you look, the boy isn't actually that much like his father after all.

Hagrid and Minerva are cooing and crowing about how he's just like James. They're not looking. It's just the slight build, the messy hair, the slightly pointed chin, that give a general impression of Jamesness

And the spectacles, of course, those fucking spectacles.

(Never mind that Potter would never have been seen dead in those round plastic NHS monstrosities. Never mind that Potter was never quite so small, or quite so thin.)

That pale skin tone is definitely Lily's. Potter had a pale golden skin that took an easy, casual tan, every summer when they went to the south of France. Nice to be rich and own property abroad.

You can tell this child burns as soon as he gets into the sun.

And the cheekbones and forehead owe more to Lily's mother than anyone else, and that is definitely the Evans nose…

…and now he's staring and…

…Dear heaven.

Those eyes.

(No. Don't think of that. Put the thought away.)

He doesn't even stand like Potter.

(See the way he looks at you. Curious, eager. Like she was.)

(don't think of her.)

Lily loved brewing potions.

(Put the thought away.)

Imagine teaching him, Lily's son. Imagine guiding him, filling him with the joy of discovery, of learning. Showing him how to crush tulara root, him smiling up at you –

– the way Lily smiled at you when you first showed her…

(Do not think of that.)

It is nothing but a fantasy.

He must hate you already. That spiteful bitch has had years to fill his head with tales of her sister and the dreadful Snape boy who corrupted her, and how he left her in the end…

(Left her and betrayed her and killed her.)

(Lily cried on your shoulder over Petunia's words to her.)

(Put the thought away.)

Petunia must have left her bitterness behind. She took Lily's son in, looked after him.

(Never mind that Potter was never quite so small, or quite so thin.)

He knows you knew her. His aunt must have told him. Her sister's best friend.

(don't think of that)

He's never known his mother.

How long till he comes asking about her? What was she like? –

(like a brilliant flame)

(that you put out)

– what did she enjoy? who were her friends?

(who, indeed?)

and

asking what happened? why did you turn away from her? why did you betray her?

Why?

(do not think of that)

and will you tell him that you killed his mother? that her death is your fault?

(Yes, think of that. Never forget that.)

Drive him away. Keep the memories away.

He must hate you.

(Think of that.)

You must make him hate you. Then he will not ask.

Drive him away, because he could never be close.

Drive him away, because he could never be yours.

(Should have been yours. Could have been yours.)

(do not think of that)

Would never want to be yours.

Yes, think of that. Think of his father. Think of the slights, the harassment, every single bloody word and hex over seven bloody years…

(yes, think of that)

…think that he stole your Lily from you.

(she was not wrong to choose Potter over you)

He is Potter's, not yours. Potter's, not yours. Potter's, not yours.

Potter, not you.

Potter.

Think of that.

(that's it)

Potter, spoilt, pampered prince. Potter, arrogant, self-assured prankster. Rule-breaker. Careless. Thoughtless. Despicable.

See the glasses, not the eyes. The glasses. Potter's. Potter. Potter. Think of that.

And hate him, hate this new child Potter, for all he is and all you could never have.

Because when you look, the little brat is just like his father.