I Feel UnPretty
Even at age seven, he knew he was different from all the other boys at his school; while they all focused on teasing the girls and trying to prove who was the toughest, he was always being teased and had no problem with being called weak or 'sissy boy'.
The day he was in the kitchen helping his aunt cook dinner was the day that he made his decision.
His aunt was humming. The radio was on and the sound was floating on the wind breezing through the open window and out into the calm streets of privet. The music seemed to be sliding through his hair, tugging at curls and odd gravity-defying wisps.
I feel pretty
Oh, so pretty
I feel pretty and witty and bright
And I pity
Any girl who isn't
He never got to learn why his aunt pitied the girls for in the next moment the trance the cheery notes had on the wind broke and everything was silent but for the reverberating sound of the radios cord ripping from the wall and whipping across Petunia's face in one fluid move.
"Don't ever think you're pretty bitch."
In that moment, Harry became sure he would never be like his aunt. He swore he would marry someone who called him pretty and never hit him and wouldn't be a piggy man.
Harry could faintly hear the sounds of Dudley's cartoon drifting under the door after the silence had passed.
When he was fourteen, Draco Malfoy had caught him in a corridor alone. The taller male had grabbed his shoulder with one hand, the other hand trailing to cup his face.
I feel pretty was twirling in through the window beside them. Warbled and stuttering a bit.
"Did you know how pretty you are? Pretty like a little doll. Like you might shatter. Are you shattering, Harry?"
…
"Harry, do you feel Pretty?"
At twenty-one he should have felt it was too good to have been real.
Sure, there was the occasional drunken slap, but Draco made sure He knew he was pretty. Draco loved how pretty he was. Like a doll. And Draco wasn't a piggy man.
Not like uncle Vernon.
If he and Draco ever broke up he thought it would be mutual. Or something would push one of them too far and they would just leave.
Harry never expected to come home to see Draco in their bed with Pansy Parkinson draped lazily across him drawing patterns on his skin with her delicate fingers.
Ironically, I feel pretty was stumbling out of the wireless on the night stand. Distorted. Distant. But still there. Still feeling pretty.
Getting released from Azkaban for the double murder of Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy at age twenty eight, Harry Potter caught his reflection in a mirror.
He stared for a moment.
He took in the raven black curls, falling past his shoulder blades and looking impossibly dark against his porcelain white skin. Cupid's bow lips just below a small button nose.
It was his eyes that made him stare though; bright emeralds glistening dully. Fake. Doll-like. Pretty.
He was finally Draco's doll. Finally he could say he was pretty. tugging. sliding. warbling. Stuttering. Distant. Distorted but still there. Still feeling pretty. Somehow, pretty didn't feel right.
...
I feel pretty, but UnPretty.