Plucked
dis.claimed.
They all knew that there was something special about Harry. The adults, that is – the ones who had met him before that October night.
Lily and James, loving as loving could be, foolish as only the young and inexperienced could be, would not see this in their son, but Lily's eyes never stopped seeing.
It was not the hiss
from his paslelmouth…
(The adults spoken
of were numbered five.)
Or his unnatural knack
for trouble.
(Two dead, now, or
rather, one dead and one as good as.)
And never seeker
talents and skill with flying.
(Sirius Black,
Peter Pettigrew…)
Not even his friends
who took him in hand and were taken in hand likewise.
(One gone and come
back and tired. But still heart-breakingly alive.)
Or his inheritance that
gave him nothing for all its value.
(Remus Lupin…)
It was not his scar,
his fame, his destruction of the dark lord.
(Two that are more
powerful then death, one who prevents it, one who conquers it.)
No, on that cool, clear
night where a baby lay waiting to fly across country with half-giant
on motorbike – the thing about him was, that special
something about him was -
(Albus
Dumbledore, Tom "Voldermort" Riddle…)
His eyes had not been green the night before.
"You have your mother's eyes, Harry."