In honor of my finishing the Deathly Hallows, I've gone and re-edited this, nothing new for those who've slapped an alert on this, but still cannon friendly (well, almost). ps. in response to a potions and snitches (thanks Padawan Jan-AQ).
Disclaimer: I'd rather be Terry Pratchett if I had to be a famous author (he's always got work) although being richer than the Queen does sound vaguely attractive.
Harry Potter nearly cried when he looked in the mirror. His hair looked like he had been run over by a lawnmower. It was too short in the back but too long in the front and no two pieces were the same length. Worse though, was that Aunt Petunia wanted him to accompany her to the store to stock up on food for Dudley's birthday; the fat whale. Glancing back the mirror, Harry stifled a groan; he couldn't go out like this!
"Boy!" Aunt Petunia yelled from bottom of the stairs. Harry sighed, quickly darting to Dudley's second bedroom and grabbing the hat as far to the back of the closet as possible. Jamming the Chelsea cap onto his head backwards, he dashed down the stairs to the front door where Aunt Petunia was waiting, a foot tapping impatiently.
"About time you got down here." She said through pursed lips.
"Sorry Aunt Petunia." Harry mumbled slipping his feet into the too big sneakers he had inherited from Dudley.
"Hurry up or else I won't have enough time to start Duddykin's birthday meals." She said, opening the door and walking out, Harry sullenly following after.
"Good afternoon Mrs. Figg." Severus Snape said to the aged woman as she closed the door.
Some might wonder what Hogwart's sour Potion Master was doing, visiting a Squib in Muggle England, but while Mrs. Figg couldn't perform the simplest spell, neither Mr. Figg or their daughter had problems with magic. Snape had actually been good friends with Miss Turquoise Figg and her best friend, Lily Evans. Now though, he checked up occasionally on Mrs. Figg, who no longer had anyone else to look after her. Beside, he happened to know she had an ample supply of Angelica atropurpurea growing in her basement.
Buttoning his trench coat, the muggle version of his usual black robes, he started down the path towards the muggle bus, enjoying the summer sun as much as he allowed himself (he had a reputation to maintain after all). Strolling down Privet Drive, he spied tall, bony Petunia Dursley taking in her groceries, little Harry Potter tagging behind, trying to carry a bag that looked almost the same weight as the nine year old. A breeze curled through the trees then, whisking the too big baseball cap off Potter's head, who dropped the bag and grabbed the hat, putting it back on, but not before Snape saw the poor excuse for a haircut.
He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cringe, the brat may have been a Potter, but he was still Lily's son. He was torn between helping the poor creature or laughing at his misfortune. Finally, he sighed, his few shreds of moral winning and the next time little Potter went to the car to retrieve groceries, Petunia's shrill yipping whipping him on; he sent a small permanent styling charm at the boy's head, aiming for James's irritating messy look. Then he walked off, feeling slightly happy now he had no sense of debt to the brat and could thus torture him properly once he entered Hogwarts.