Yes. He was angry.
In fact, Hadrian James Potter was irrevocably enraged.
Why?
He had survived the last fifteen years of his life by himself. He was shown not an ounce of love. He was given not a single hug and so received not a single kiss. Being cared for was truly nothing more than a dystopian dream he would curate as a child. A dream that was fabricated alongside abrasive lemon scented chemicals and the itchiness of a quilt far too small for an already malnourished boy.
So when he found himself sitting across from Ronald Weasley as he complained for the fourth day in a row, he was irrevocably enraged. After all, there are few things Harry Potter wouldn’t give to receive a single pestering letter from his own parents. Hell even a pestering letter from Sirius would have made his fucking day.
But alas. That was not the case.
There were no simple questions about what class was currently his favorite, no congratulations for his latest catch of the snitch, no howlers reprimanding him for one of his numerous late night rendezvous, no proud tones as his mother received a near perfect report card, no laugh from his father when he heard the way he talked back to Malfoy yet again, no unsolicited advice from Sirius about his nonexistent love life, or from Remus about sneaking out of the castle.
There was none of that. There would never be any of that.
So yes, Hadrian James Potter was irrevocably enraged.
And maybe, just maybe, it was time for the wizarding world to know what happens when you make a Potter angry. Or better yet, when you make a Potter that has the heart and soul of an Evan’s, angry.
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Plates splintered and glasses shattered in any direction as Hadrian James Potter practically flew from his seat. His hands gripped the edges of the wooden table and later that day, scorch marks could be seen where his hands had likely rested. They would actually be there for years to come as some magic is simply irreversible. Especially the magic of ones who could be described as nothing less that irrevocably enraged.
“Angry? You wonder why I am angry?” Harry may have been speaking in nothing more than a hissed whisper, but the silence that spread throughout the great hall seemed to allow his voice to reverberate clearly to even the furthest corner.
Professors would usually hear such a tone and immediately act to shut down the situation. However, looking down at hair that seemed to stand on end and crack with static electricity and dangerous green eyes that swam with anger. They could only think of one individual. An individual with shocking red hair and a temper that could not be pushed aside. It was the type of temper that was best to leave alone and let it run its course. So therefore, the entire hall got a little insight into the tragic life of their golden savior who’s life was not as golden as they once pretended it to be.
After all, did we really watch a malnourished child walk these halls for the best five years and truly believe he was being treated as he should be?
“I am so fucking angry Ron. I am angry because you're sitting here and complaining that your mother asked how your classes are going. I’m angry because she sent you a perfectly good scarf and you threw it away like it meant nothing more than the extra scraps of food on your plate. I am angry because you talk about your own siblings like they are the scum on the bottom of your shoes, and I am angry because you simply never stop.”
“I am so fucking angry because I will never get any of the things you do and that makes me so fucking jealouse.” Harry is jealous. He always has been and likely always will be.
“How can you be jealous? You're famous. You have money. Everyone at this school practically worships the ground you walk on.” Ron Wesley has always been under the impression that Harry Potter has everything. After all, he has money, what else could he need?
“Ron. I would trade my fame and every last gallon, sickle, and knut, if it meant that I got to live life as you did. That is what I am so fucking angry. I am angry because I will never be tucked into bed or receive a goodnight kiss from my mom. I will never learn to ride a broom or tie a tie from my dad. I will never play dolls with the little sister that died with my Mom. I will never celebrate my birthday and hear my parents tell me how proud of the man I am growing into. I will never sit in a red and gold room and hang up a poster that I got for yule. I will never sit in a comfy chair in a cozy family library and read to my heart's content and have my mom walk in and question what I am reading. I will never sit down at the dining room table and ask how my dads day was because he was at work and I haven't seen him since I gave him a motherfucking goodbye hug that morning. I am angry because no matter what I do I will never receive a letter from my mom asking about my classes. My dad will never send me a letter detailing the perfect plan for a prank him, Remus, Sirius, or even Peter managed to think up. I will never get a howler from both of them congratulating me on catching the snitch. Hell, i’ll never even get a howler from them to say that whatever midnight adventure you fucking dragged me along for was insane and I could have died.”
By the end of the tirade a hush had fallen over the great hall. They finally saw Harry James Potter for who he was. Just a child. Just like them. A child that still yearned for parental love and would never get it. As Harry turned and stocked out of the great hall, students across all houses and all years made a vow that they would never overlook Harry again. No longer would he be the golden child that defeated the dark lord. No. Instead he would just be Harry with his dark hair and Harry with his green eyes and Harry with a solid proficiency in defense against the dark arts.
Harry would from then on just be Harry, and he wouldn't want it any other way.