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Summary
Privet Drive was a place of neat hedges and quiet disapproval.The Dursleys lived at number four and had spent nearly eleven years trying to erase one small boy from the world.Harry Potter.Not that anyone really knew what Harry looked like.The books, interviews and endless speculation in wizarding papers all painted the same picture:unruly black hair like his father dazzling green eyes like his mother.The truth was more complicated.Harry stood in front of the mirror in Dudley’s second bedroom—a space more like a storage closet for broken toys—staring at the stranger in the glass.Dark red hair the kind that flared like dying embers in the right light.It curled and twisted every which way untamable as storm winds like the photos of James Potter supposedly showed.But Harry wouldn’t know.He’d never seen them.His eyes weren’t green but soft hazel—more gold than brown almost copper in sunlight.They carried a glimmer no one taught him:a restless mischievous spark always close to trouble or laughter.His shoulders slouched from years of trying to disappear but sometimes walking down the street—chin lifted stride loose and defiant—there was something unmistakable.A stubbornness.A kindness that refused to break.Not that Harry knew.