A/N: This is the promised continuation of Fairytale. I don't think it's necessary for you to read that first. Pretty much, each chapter is a oneshot, where I've taken bits from Fairytale and expanded on them.
Rainbow Of Grey
"The wolf shall lie down with the lamb. The leopard shall lie down with the kid. The calf, the lion and the fatling together, and the little child to lead them."
- Isaiah, 11:6
"This boy grew up under the epithet of freak – for a time, he even believed that was his name."
Harry Potter was a freak. He knew that, had known it all his life. Words his uncle hissed at him, words children chanted in the playground. Freak. Freak. Freak.
It was so engrained, in fact, that for a while he thought it was his name. It was only when he started school and his teacher called the register, that he realised his name was Harry. Harry Potter.
For a time, school was good. He didn't have any friends, but his teacher was nice and stopped Dudley bullying him sometimes. He'd always pay for getting Dudley into trouble when he got home, but it was worth it to have someone looking out for him.
But then he moved up to year one and his teacher was Mrs Richards. She didn't like him from the start, and told the entire class he was a nasty little liar and would end up in reform school one day.
Harry stopped enjoying school after that.
On his first day of reception, he made a sign that said "Harry Potter" and stuck it to his cupboard door. He wrote his name on every picture he drew, every book he dug out of the bin. That, if nothing else, reminded him of his name.
He had so very little, that he must place some claim of ownership on those things he scrounged. He wasn't allowed to use the special felt tip pen at school anymore, because Mrs Richards caught him writing on his arm. He tried to explain that he was just writing his name, but she said he'd get blood poisoning and that it was just encouraging him to be a little vandal, and he'd be graffitying the walls next.
He did manage to steal a felt tip from Dudley's room once, and he used it to draw on the walls of his cupboard. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never went in there anyway, so he was safe.
He still wrote his name a lot, and drew his parents. He'd found a tattered old picture of his mother in the back of a photo album, and he treasured it. He still didn't know what his father looked like, but he could guess, by assuming he looked like himself. In the photograph, his mother had red hair, and green eyes, his eyes. Her nose was like his too, but those were the only obvious resemblances. So Harry must look mostly like his father. That made looking in the mirror a lot more enjoyable. Sometimes, he takes off his glasses and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, and pretends it's his father he's looking at. That his father is there, in the reflection, just out of his reach. That his daddy is looking out for him, in every mirror, every puddle, every reflection.
It gives him something to hope for.
"– and the boy soldiers on because he is the hero and that's what heroes do."