The cupboard was quiet. It usually was quiet in there, since he was the only one in there. His only company was the spiders that occasionally wandered in, and they couldn’t exactly speak to him. But he had his dolls, his toys and his puppets, the ones that he had oh so carefully stolen over the years and crafted piece by piece. Each one was tiny, no larger than his hand, but they were beautiful. Made of wood and porcelain and plastic, wearing clothing carefully made with scraps of fabric, and painted with tiny designs to make them look oh so real. They were his treasures, his precious treasures.
He absolutely could not let anyone find them.
So he hid them, just as he hid all things. He hid them under the threadbare blanket and the thin pillow. Under the mattress that lay in tatters above the cot. He hid them in the darkest corners of his cupboard, where the Dursleys never bothered to look.
He was cold today, shivering for reasons he knew not. He clutched the blanket that he had been given tighter around him. He should be sleeping by this time, it was so very late at night. But he couldn’t sleep. Such had become the norm in recent times, for nightmares plagued him whenever he closed his eyes. The lack of sleep was catching up to him, and people had been commenting that he looked like death.
Green eyes that so seemed to glow, large circular, broken glasses held together by tape and glue, and wild inky black hair that stuck up in every direction. Add in the pale skin and the black bags beneath his eyes, and it went for quite the picture.
But he didn’t care. Freak didn’t care. Boy didn’t boy didn’t care. Harry didn’t care.
Because his appearance felt wrong.
He would see his reflection in the mirror, green eyes, glasses, and everything, and all he would be able to think about was how off his appearance looked to him. It didn’t feel right. He shouldn’t have been wearing glasses. His hair wasn’t black. His eyes shouldn’t be so green. But they were. He was. This was how he looked. But it still felt wrong.
So much in his life felt off. He always felt like he was forgetting something. There as always something missing, something fantastical, something different.
Sometimes he thought his dreams were the answer. The dreams of red sand and people screaming. The dreams of hundreds of figures blotting out the sky, all descending on something. The dreams of loneliness and loss, or long dark nights spent in a place surrounded by blurry colorless shapes. He sought out those dreams at times, because at times they felt so real and damn it why couldn’t he remember more and why was he here and why did something feel like it was missing and the world was wrong wrong wrong.
He schooled his features, forcing a blank mask upon his face. That was his default expression most days, he got in less trouble with his relatives when he stayed like this.
And less trouble was good.
HP X Naruto Idea
Published
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