A/N: This was written for the Glee Proyect Style Competition, based off on the following lyrics of "Born this Way" (Lady Gaga):
Same DNA,
But Born This Way.
Hopefully, it'll take me to the next round. Enjoy!
Sometimes Harry found it hard to believe that those people were his relatives. They didn't even look like him at all. Dudley was a whale with lungs; he was sure he couldn't be skinnier. Aunt Petunia, she was honestly loud, talked non-stop, always gossiping about the neighbors or her perfect Duddykins. Harry was proudly quiet. And there's really no point in even mentioning Vernon... But, before he could fully convince himself that he had nothing to do with them at all, a question popped from the back of his mind: why would they keep him then?
And that brought along a long line of thought. From time to time, he would notice some little things: aunt Petunia's eyes' when she looked at her precious Dudders were not entirely unlike his… then Harry would recall the one time he had accidentally stumbled upon a half asleep Petunia as he was heading back to his cupboard, during one of his late night escapades for the kitchen. She was by the window; her clothes rugged, as she sat slumped on a chair. She must finally be getting tired of fishing the gossip from the poor neighbors, he thought in amusement. Harry hadn't noticed her on his way to the kitchen; he had been too focused on being as silent as possible. He was standing in the middle of the room, now. He had no choice but to keep going. Harry would then lie and tell himself he was watching for a move, careful not to wake her up and risk the certain fury with which Aunt Petunia would try to mask her slip up. Because... the way she looked: so calm, so- so-he fumbled for a word- honest. And that's exactly the real reason why he wouldn't, couldn't look away: he'd never seen her like this before; she'd never allowed it. But somehow, it felt familiar. Because he'd often imagined it, back then when he still hoped, dreamed of a place where she'd care, where he was loved.
Aunt Petunia shifted slightly in her sleep, and Harry held his breath, marveling at the sight before him. Her lips had tugged slightly upwards: She was smiling. And it was not a "I'm better than you" smile, or a "If you ruin this, you'll regret it" smile. Aunt Petunia was truly smiling. And suddenly, he heard it. A whisper so low, and short, he wasn't sure he'd heard at all. "Lily" a word so full of tenderness, of safety, of happiness… "Lily" As soon as it came, the smile was gone; the name a moment ago so comforting, now filled him with anguish, and he watched Aunt Petunia's face contort with pain.
Harry knew it for certain, then. They couldn't be so different, not after that. No matter how hard she would try to hide it. That word, a mere whisper, connected them. They were related. His first impulse was to hug her, and he reached out to do so, but quickly restrained himself; the gesture would not be welcomed. She would most likely scream at him, call him an "insolent brat". So Harry finally made his way back to his cupboard, feeling a bit empty inside.
Fortunately, a shout or a shove would end his ramblings before he got too caught up in them, allowing him to go back to pretending. He felt more cheerful then.
They often called him a freak. Maybe he was one.
Harry remembered it quite clearly, the first time he'd been named like that. It had happened during a session of Harry Hunting. They were bigger and stronger than him, and Harry knew that once caught, fighting back would only harm him even more. Thankfully, Dudley and his friends tired fairly quickly, and his cousin had always had a tendency for leaving things unfinished, so if Harry could manage to stay out of his way long enough, he would save himself a couple of bruises. He was proud to say, he had become a master of evasion. Being little helped quite a lot, since he could use tiny spaces to hide, and living in a cupboard meant he could stay in them long enough, without feeling too uncomfortable. But none of that would help him now. The teacher had made him stay behind. Harry didn't know why; he wasn't even paying attention to what she was saying. He had his mind on the three bullies he knew were waiting for him right around the corner of the hall. So, as soon as he could, he bolted out of the classroom, with nothing on his mind but three bold words:
DON'T GET CAUGHT.
Dudley's gang was hot on his heels, and he kept running with all his might, mind fixed on the phrase that gave him a purpose. There was a strong motion of the wind, and he shut his eyes forcefully. The noises sounded far away now and Harry noticed he had stopped running at some point. So he opened his eyes slowly, bracing himself for the pain that was to come, only to find himself standing at the top of the school roof. Everything looked tiny and Dudley's frightening screams now sounded like squeaks. Harry laughed. And laughed. And laughed. He opened his arms wide, sending his thanks to the wind that had saved him. He felt on top of the world, unstoppable. He couldn't understand how people could ever be scared of heights. For the first time in his life, he felt free.
Unfortunately, that didn't last long. A teacher suddenly appeared behind him, and as Harry turned around, he could see him approaching slowly, hesitantly, murmuring all kind of things Harry could not understand. Why was the teacher afraid? They got down, and, in the middle of countless whispers, called Aunt Petunia, who talked to the teachers ( he didn't understand any of that, though he had a feeling everybody thought he had been trying to hurt himself, and he would later bitterly remember the words "mentally unstable" and "hereditary" being a part of the conversation) and took him back to the house. She didn't say anything. As she dragged him by the hair, Harry risked looking at her and saw exactly what he'd seen before in his teacher's eyes: she, too, was afraid. But there was something else, something he would only be capable of naming years later, because he'd feel it showing in his own face: betrayal. Aunt Petunia then tossed him carelessly inside the cupboard and closed the door. Harry could do nothing but sit in there, frozen, as he heard the noises of someone searching the kitchen. Moments later, a deafening sound made him cover his ears, and he started to cough as dust invaded his cupboard. In the middle of all the noise he could recognize the sound of the front door being hastily opened and from the heavy footsteps and a gasp of "Bloody hell, Petunia!" he could tell that Uncle Vernon was home. She responded with chocking sobs of "Dangerous" "Keep him occupied" and finally, the word which would define him for several years to come, spat with a shrill of disgust: "Freak".
From that moment on, things changed for Harry. He was only ignored, before: As long as he didn't annoy anyone, he was free to do as he pleased. So it didn't bother him, as he didn't really like his relatives. The only thing he needed to do was be invisible, and he was quite good at it. He was peaceful. But not anymore. The next thing he heard Aunt Petunia say to him was that he needed to "earn his living". Before he could realize what was happening, he was doing all the chores of the house. Now, he was shouted at, out of the blue. And he wasn't Harry anymore, no. He wasn't even "Boy", as they used to call him. That was only on good days, like Dudley's birthday, or when Uncle Vernon got promoted. He was now "the Freak". And it hurt.
Things went on like that for a long time, until Pierce started to talk about how cool VCR's were and how he planned to ask for the coolest one on his birthday. That's all it took for Dudley to remember the Christmas present he had dismissed as useless and left forgotten on his spare bedroom. After much nagging on his part, a movie night was organized. Harry, of course, wasn't invited, but was to be sitting locked in cupboard, in utter silence, while Aunt Petunia played dutiful hostess to the friends of her dear Duddykins. He couldn't see, but he could listen. And that's how Harry learned the story of the little kid with the bicycle, and the friendly alien who was looking for a way back home. Suddenly, a lot of things started to make sense to him. Why he was so different. Why Aunt Petunia had been so scared. He remembered standing on the rooftop. And all the hurt, all the fear he felt afterwards (because he had been terrified, once he understood, from everyone else's reaction, that there was something wrong with him) it all vanished, and he felt himself laugh again, his eyes full of tears. Maybe he was lost; maybe someone was out there, looking for him. Maybe, just maybe, all the strange, wonderful things didn't actually happen to him; he made them happen. This was his way to call home!
Harry was cheerful again, and had to keep himself from smiling every time they called him freak. He now reveled on the things that frightened him before, like the time he managed to grow back his hair overnight, or when he turned his teacher's hair to a lovely shade of electric blue, or even better, the episode of the zoo: seeing Dudley trapped inside the glass, as the polite snake finally made her way to freedom was utterly hilarious. But that was nothing compared to how he felt when all those letters started to arrive. He was ecstatic. It was finally working! Someone was answering his calls! Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice kept telling him not to get his hopes too high. It was all only a game of pretend. Harry ignored it. He was too happy to care.
Only when an enormous man blasted the door looking for him, claiming he was a wizard of some kind, did he recognize that things were going a little out of control. It was just a game. He was just Harry. He told him so. Then, the stranger-Hagrid- started to explain. And he did an amazing thing. He did magic. There was something familiar about it, so Harry let himself be taken away. The following days, he did nothing but listen. He absorbed everything Hagrid said, every marvelous thing he saw, trying to carve it into his memory. He wanted to be able to recall every detail the moment he'd be forced to go back to the real world.
Only a long time later, as he was hastily woken up by Ron, ("We missed breakfast, Harry, wake up! We're gonna be late for Transfiguration, McGonagall will kill us, mate!") would he realize he'd been right all along.
It had never been just a game.
He was different.
He had called out for help.
He'd been found.
He was finally home.