Disclaimer: The only thing I own is a Crayola crayon box someone decided to give me for my birthday. Very inspirational for plots.
Dedication: My parents. This story got me emotional... -sniffle-
Summary: Young, artistic Harry discovers the difficult way why he doesn't have a Mummy and Daddy at his side like that bullying Dudley Dursley.
Notes: Just a sweet little oneshot, for those of you adore angst and all. I am an American, but in England they spell color colour, so I did, too. I don't even remember if this was checked by my beta... I do know I had a friend who doesn't know a thing about Harry Potter edit it.
Colour Me Love
Harry stared down at the drawing before him, biting his lip in frustration. His hand firmly held a brand new 'Brick Red' crayon and he carefully placed the sharp, clean tip on the paper before him.
He was drawing an apple tree - like the tree in front of Harry's new school. Harry wasn't exactly fond of school. The other kindergarteners thought he was rather weird. In fact, even the teacher thought he was strange, with his crooked glasses, oversized clothes, curious personality, strange scar, and messy hair. By now he was used to it, though. He had learned to appreciate himself and not let the others take down his self confidence too easily. He had nice green eyes – like the 'forest green' crayon he had used to colour in the leaves on the tree – and soft black hair that seemed to have a mind of its own.
Harry slowly began making smooth red streaks inside the small circle he had drawn earlier. He was now colouring in the apples which had taken him so long to draw. Harry was no artist, but he was pretty good compared to most of the kids in his class, and that was fine by him.
The young boy smiled in relief as he finished colouring in the last apple. He carefully placed the 'Brick Red' crayon back in the box the neighbor, Mrs. Figg had given to him. He held up the picture he had taken hours to make proudly. There were a few white spots and sometimes he had coloured outside the lines, but it was his best work yet.
"Gimme that!" A rough voice yelled as a pudgy hand attempted to snatch the paper out of Harry's hands. Harry yelped and stepped back, just in time to narrowly avoid the hand.
It was none other than Dudley Dursley, Harry's cousin. Harry knew better than to mess with Dudley – After all, Dudley was twice as big as him – But he wouldn't stand for this. This was Harry's masterpiece, and not even Dudley could wreck it.
But Harry knew he should have known better. As predicted, the moment after Harry dodged his cousin's hand, Dudley's face began to twist into his infamous pout, and soon he began wailing loudly.
"Oh, Dudley!" A shrill, loud voice called in alarm. Harry tensed, knowing exactly what was coming. Aunt Petunia came running in, wearing a long apron and holding a fat rolling pin. "Diddykins, are you all right?"
Harry stepped back in fear as Dudley violently shook his head and continued wailing. He sniffed and pointed towards Harry, "It-It- It was him!" He wailed loudly.
Aunt Petunia eyes widened and she turned to Harry, "What did you to him?" She cried loudly as she grabbed Dudley and began checking him, as if she was looking for scars or bruises. Harry shook his head desperately, but he knew it was too late. "Vernon! VERNON! The Potter boy's hurt Dudley!"
"I didn't! No! I was just- I was just colouring and –" Harry protested mercifully.
"He stole my paper!" Dudley interrupted, pointing to the paper Harry was still gripping onto firmly, "He stole my drawing!"
Aunt Petunia seemed to sigh in relief and stepped back, the lines of worry melting away, "Give him back his paper," she ordered.
Harry stood his ground, not wanting to give up the drawing he had worked on; His tree.
"I said give to him!" She repeated shrilly as she swung the rolling pin at Harry, narrowly missing his arm. Harry dropped the paper in alarm and Dudley instantly grabbed it. He gave Harry a smug smile and ran out of the living room, probably to show his dad Harry's work - which was now his own.
Aunt Petunia pursed her lips and looked down at Harry in disgust, "You're turning out to be exactly like your filthy parents, boy." Without another word, she turned on her heel and left towards the kitchen.
But Harry wasn't scared, relieved, nervous, or anxious like he always was after events like these. He was curious.
She had said parents. She had said that Harry had parents. Something went off in his mind – Harry had parents.
He had known that people had parents, of course. Dudley's parents were his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. His teacher at school had even mentioned to show their homework to their parents and once threatened that she would call Harry's parents if he didn't get to work, but Harry had never thought much of it. He just assumed that she was referring to his Aunt and Uncle.
But parents? Dudley's parents gave Dudley all the sweets he wanted, heaps of new clothes, and dozens of expensive new toys all the time. Harry had never had anyone to do these things for him. But if he had parents, they would do these things for him, wouldn't they?
But where were his parents?
Harry's eyes drifted to a mirror on the wall. He stepped forward and placed his tiny hand on the mirror. Was there someone out there who actually cared for him? Someone out there who wanted to hug, kiss, and give him presents? Someone who loved him?
He slowly took his hand off the mirror. A small, foggy handprint could be seen where the palm of his hand had just been. He gave it a quick glance and suddenly felt bravery sweep over him. He stood up straight and courageously looked towards the kitchen. Slowly, but without turning to look back, the young boy began towards the kitchen. He entered the room, nervously glancing around.
To his relief, Dudley and Uncle Vernon weren't anywhere in sight. Harry stepped farther into the kitchen, unsure of what exactly to do.
"Aunt Petunia?" He finally piped up quietly.
She didn't bother looking up, "What?" She asked, stirring some sort of tangy-looking stew.
Harry began shuffling his feet and glanced at the ground, "Where are my parents?"
There was a short silence as Aunt Petunia stopped stirring and froze, "What?"
"My parents," Harry repeated desperately, "Where are my parents?"
Aunt Petunia seemed to be doing some very fast thinking. "You don't have any," she finally responded. Assured that she had said the right thing, she went back to stirring.
"Yes, I do," Harry said quietly, bringing his gaze up to his Aunt, trying to keep his voice down, "You said I was just like my parents earlier. Where are they?"
Harry saw Aunt Petunia's mixing arm falter and a muscle in her jaw twitch, yet she still didn't turn to face him. This time, she stayed quiet for a few minutes. "Your parents won't come to you. It shouldn't matter."
Harry felt the small bubble of hope which had formed in his chest pop and he looked back at the floor, "Why? Did I do something wrong? Is that why no one loves me?"
Aunt Petunia's arm completely halted and she began to tremble, ever so slightly. It seemed to be hours before she finally regained her composure and was able to talk, "No. You did nothing wrong. They're dead, Harry, they can't see you no matter how hard they want to."
The words hurt Harry more than the rock that had hit Harry's shoulder when he was four had hurt. A new kind of pain had formed inside Harry.
Dead – the word dead always brought one picture to Harry's mind. When Dudley had started the first grade, he had received a present – a shiny, shimmering goldfish, to be exact. Dudley had never been too fond of the fish, but the way it swam around its fish tank, opening and closing its mouth had always fascinated Harry. But one day, Harry came to see goldfish, only to find it floating on top of the water, eyes blank and mouth wide open. It had been so lifeless.
Dudley had only thrown a small tantrum, but the fish's death had always remained in Harry's mind. Was this how his parents were? Somewhere, lying blankly, eyes wide and still as a rock?
"How did they die? Was I there?" Harry managed to croak.
Apparently, this was one step to far for Aunt Petunia, "A car crash. You were in the car with them and it's how you got that hideous scar on your forehead. Now don't ask questions!" she snapped irritably.
Harry nodded quickly and left the kitchen, before he got into more trouble. A car crash. It seemed so silly. He had no one, just because his parents had accidentally hit another car while driving? How was this fair?
He sat back down in his 'drawing chair' and began to draw again, this time unsure of what he exactly was drawing.
Shakily, he began carefully drawing three figures – Himself, his mother, and his father. It was a nice drawing, even more appealing than his tree. But strangely, it only brought pain to Harry. With a heavy heart, he gazed at the picture, and moved his eyes to the crayon box again.
Harry closed his eyes and slowly pulled out a single crayon. Then, almost unable to control himself, he began scribbling furiously all over the picture, hot tears prickling in his eyes. It was useless to draw the older version of him he had imagined his dad as and the lady he had thought of as his mum that he had he had been tempted to give 'brick red' hair as, the colour which he had used to colour his apples. He didn't even know if that was how they had looked and he would never be able to know. He would always be that bizarre orphan boy, forced to watch everyone grow up around him with smiling faces and wonderful families, while he had never even met his own parents.
But Harry couldn't cry, or at least not where Dudley Dursley could see. He tossed the crayon on the table and took off towards his cupboard, not bothering to clean up after him.
Little did Harry know that the 'Chartreuse' crayon Harry had just thrown on the table was the only thing he knew about his parent's real death and how much his parents had truly loved him.
A/N: Review, please! It would sure color me happy!