1.
Staring into the chipped mirror in the boy's lavatory, Harry Potter noted she was small for her age. Malnourished and grubby, she often had grass stains decorating the dirt-brown skin of her knees. Between her cousin's gargantuan form and her rather diminished one, Dudley's cast-offs hung off of her like chains. Yet her one defining feature, in her opinion, was not the eerie green of her eyes, or even the peculiar slash of lightning marring her forehead; it was the magnificent, wild mane that sat upon her skull.
Harry had been determinedly growing her hair out for several months after seeing an ad on the telly. The woman's hair on the screen had been bouncy, lively, full of color and flair. Her curls garnered the attention of everyone she had passed; inspecting her own lengthy locks hanging down to brush her chest, Harry's smile was radiant.
Technically, she was not supposed to be in the bathroom at this particular moment. Yet when Dudley's latest taunts on the playground had included a vehement, "You look like a girl, freak!" she'd darted off to confirm. In her haste, she missed the look of bewilderment that had contorted her cousin's pig-like face. Now, class was far beyond her thoughts as she rubbed at the smudged glass of the dingy mirror.
She did look like a girl, Harry observed with delight. The lack of food had made her weak, prone to clumsiness and often shaky, but the unintentional side-effect of the Dursley family's choice of affection was her waif-like figure. She turned to the side to better view her profile, and, just then, one of the boys from Dudley's miniature gang walked in. It was Piers Polkiss, the mousiest of the lot. Harry ducked into the corner in an attempt to hide herself, but of course, the boys' loo had no coverage.
He stood at a urinal, but noticed Harry then. "Oi! You looking to get off? Get the fuck out of here before I punch your lights out, girly-boy!"
Harry ran.
-
After getting a solid ten-minute scolding by her teacher in front of the whole class, Harry spent the remainder of her time daydreaming about having the longest, most beautiful hair in all of Surrey. She'd read about it once, in the library: a girl whose hair cascaded down a brick tower to let her evil stepmother climb up, though why the girl would allow that, she didn't know. Dudley pulling on her hair hurt. She hadn't finished it since she couldn't take the book home with her. Too much freakishness, her aunt Petunia would say, who was surely much more evil than any children's tale, no magic needed.
Walking home, she'd even managed to avoid Dudley, so she'd count this day as a resounding success.
The Dursley house was calm when Harry walked in. She assumed this meant her relatives were out -- maybe her uncle had a dinner function she'd forgotten about. Starting in on her evening chores, she balled her hair up in a loose bun and tied a knot into Dudley's baggy shirt. Heading to the door, a high, reedy voice stopped her.
"What is that on your head?" Petunia's tone rang out like shattering glass. Harry froze. Harry turned wide eyes to the gangly woman towering over the entryway.
"I'm sorry?" Harry said this blindly; she had no idea what she'd inadvertently done this time.
Petunia wrinkled her nose. "Has your hair always been this long? You look like a girl; it's not proper for a boy to have hair that length. Come here," she stated, gesturing to the hallway as she pivoted on her heel.
Harry's eyes darted towards the door, but she still followed the woman, steps hesitant and unsure. She dared to ask, "What are you going to do, Aunt Petunia?" A nervous, bubbly feeling jumped around her stomach. The hairs on her arms raised.
Aunt Petunia didn't answer. Instead, she led her down the hall and into the bathroom. Grimacing, she eyed the dust highlighted in the hallway's yellow glow, but said nothing. Pointing at the toilet with one knobby, veined finger, she barked out, "Sit," then vacated the room.
An alarm was wailing in Harry's head, and the bubbly feeling had turned to nausea. She did not sit.
The clicking of Petunia’s shoes preceded her aunt's return, loud and ominous in the claustrophobic space. In the shadow of the woman's silhouette engulfing the doorway, a pair of scissors gleamed.
Harry startled back, heart racing in a pulsing staccato. She retreated until the tub pressed against her heels. "A-Aunt Petunia?" she choked out, voice shaking. "What are those for?" She knew. The angry determination sparking in her beady eyes, the thin line of her aunt's mouth. She knew and yet she rejected it with every fiber of her being.
"Be seated, boy."
Her figure loomed closer. Harry's body vibrated in fear. Instinct told her to make a run for it, but years of obeying Aunt Petunia kept her frozen. When the scissors rose, however, flight jolted her feet into motion, but it was too late. A gnarled hand shoved her into the tub, grabbed her hair, and yanked.
Harry cried out; the first snip was buried in the sound.
Petunia was efficient -- within a few cuts, a large chunk of dark, curly hair coated the porcelain bottom of the tub. She worked close to the scalp, nicking Harry more than once with uncaring metal. Harry was gasping, harsh puffs of air expelling from her with every snip. Tears leaked to join the mess at her knees in a constant stream. She did not blink.
When it was over, Petunia leaned back with a dissatisfied air. "Nothing can be done for those disgusting curls that man gave you, but at least they’re almost presentable. Now, what do you say when something nice is done for someone like you?"
A faint whisper. "Thank you, Aunt Petunia."
"You're welcome. Clean up this mess, it looks terrible in here," Petunia grunted, hands sweeping sheared curls from her apron onto the tiled floor. She looked over the quietly sobbing figure in the bathtub, then left, closing the door as she went. Darkness swallowed the room but for a single strip of light.
Silence.
Dull green eyes stared vacantly over the shapes outlined in shadow. The taste of salt permeated her senses, wet coating her face and strands of hair brushing her knees. Slowly, shaking hands rose. The hair on her head was short, and mangled. It caught on her fingers; tangling it further in her hands, she gripped the thin curls and pulled. A cry ripped out of her throat.
She did not move for hours, but no one cared.
Eventually, she stood, cleaned the evidence, and curled up in her cupboard. Then, she wept.
-
Harry woke up to the stomping of Dudley's gigantic steps tearing down the stairs, Uncle Vernon bellowing, and Aunt Petunia's snapping at him to lower his voice, hers equally as loud. Harry's head was pounding and foggy, and the corners of her eyes were crusted over. She felt faint, and wondered whether or not she had eaten something the day before. For some reason, her memory of the afternoon prior was noticeably absent.
Stretching out her hands until they bumped against the low ceiling, Harry let them card through her messy bedhead as they came back down. Her hair was oddly smooth, and her curls easy to comb through. She pulled them over one shoulder and tied the strands in a loose braid -- running her palm over the soft texture -- then got dressed. Wood squeaked as it was pushed open; she made a mental note to rub some oil against the joints after school. Uncle Vernon shoved past her without looking, knocking her into the wall. Groaning, she rubbed her arm and straightened up.
Aunt Petunia was staring at her.
White as chalk, her mouth gaped while her hand clutched at her chest. Her other hand hung at her side, bag slipping out of her grasp and hitting the floor with a quiet thunk. She took one step closer, then another. As her pace quickened, her pale features flushed an ugly, mottled red and her eyes narrowed. Venom spewed from her mouth in quick spurts. "What kind of freakishness have you done now? I knew we shouldn’t have taken you in; that same devilish magic infected you just like it did my sister!"
Harry's heart skipped.
She gawked at Petunia, who was about frothing at the lips. Her aunt's rant bounced around in her mind while the woman grabbed her by her bruised arm and yanked her forward. She stumbled and tripped, bumping into the woman.
"Useless! I'll have to make sure to cut it all off so it sticks this time," Petunia uttered, dragging her now with monstrous strength. "None of this nonsense in my proper household."
Adrenaline rushed through Harry. Flashes of yesterday's horror bombarded her, superimposed against the fiendish Petunia of now. She stuck her toes on the wood of the hall and slammed back on her heels. A rabid shriek unleashed from Harry’s throat.
"Let me go!" she screamed madly, clawing at the appendage holding her arm hostage. She would not let her hair be cut again, not after it undid itself. It was hers, and Aunt Petunia wouldn't steal a single piece of it. Frantic, she peeled at those spindly, tightened fingers. Her nails scratched over pale and brown skin both.
Aunt Petunia screeched, letting go of her quickly. However, Harry's victory was short-lived. "Insolent child!" She yelled. Harry felt a sudden wind rush past, then a sharp, painful slap. The woman's fury guided her hand, sending Harry reeling to the floor.
Dazed, the stinging lines wounding her cheek barely registered in overwhelming shock. Never before had Aunt Petunia hit her. Dudley had made it his personal game to attempt bodily harm on a daily basis, and Uncle Vernon was overly rough in his own handling of her, but Petunia had seemed to find affront with touching Harry. Before yesterday, Harry could've counted on one hand how many times she'd touched her on purpose.
Mute, Harry looked at her aunt.
Aunt Petunia regarded her with a blank expression. "Well?" She said primly, "Up you get. Don't have all day for this tomfoolery."
Frightened of her aunt's banked rage, Harry let herself into the bathroom and collapsed in the tub. She didn't bother to lift her head.
The second time was worse than the first. Petunia sawed at the mass of her hair with no concern. Tiny rivulets of blood snaked down her forehead to merge with the tears running down her face. Her cheek stung. She thought of her mother and her devilish magic. She thought of her father, whose hair she apparently shared. Perhaps she'd look like him now. She could live with that, maybe.
Petunia finished with one last snip, right against the back of her neck. Rather than feeling lighter, Harry just felt lightheaded.
"Utter rubbish, this nonsense you've put me through. Don't you know how much we do for you?" She shoved her hands under Harry's armpits and pulled her up, but Harry's legs slipped out from under her. Petunia tsked, dragging her out of the tub and depositing her on the toilet seat. Harry slumped over. "Should've left you out there in the cold, wouldn't have lasted all morning. Ungrateful boy, hurry up and clean this or you'll be late for school. I've had enough of you making me look bad for one day."
Petunia left unceremoniously, and Harry stared ahead. There was a small crack expanding from the crease where porcelain met wall. Harry pictured it sprawling across plaster to devour the foundation, collapsing the house with the Dursleys trapped inside.
She didn't look at the mirror as she passed it. Nor did she look at any reflections at school, no matter how many taunts and jeers were thrown at her.
When she woke up the next day with hair cascading down her back, she resolved to run. If Aunt Petunia didn't see her, she wouldn't know her deed had been reversed twice. As quiet as she could, she packed her bag with her meager belongings: a blanket she'd had since birth, a picture she'd drawn of the night sky, a spare change of clothes. She surveyed her small cupboard. It had treated her well for what it was. Harry nodded once, then creaked the door open just a smidge.
Nothing.
Harry took a deep breath, then inched it open wider. The Dursleys must still be asleep. Perfect. She flung wide the door and launched herself towards the entrance. Two steps in her hair snagged on something -- was caught by something, no, someone. She screamed as her bag flew through the air and her body was propelled backwards… right into the waiting arms of Petunia Dursley.
There in the hallway, garden shears in hand, Petunia cut Harry's hair for the third time.
By the fourth, her tears had dried up.
The fifth time was the one that stuck. Either the miracle had worn off, or Petunia had bested even that. When her hair grew next, it was at a natural rate, and Petunia made sure it fell no lower than her chin.
There would be no freakishness in the Dursley household, after all.