He knew what it was, to have all eyes on him – to be envied and yet ostracized. School had never been home for him, but he remembered summers spent at the Muggle park down the road, and girls who admired his pink hair, asking him if he’d dyed it at home and saying that he was lucky that his parents let him. Teddy never said anything to them. He grew up like that – phases of being misunderstood, and the permanent state of loneliness that somehow felt like a part of his personality. Things were more confusing since he turned fifteen, people yelling “pretty boy” at him like it was an insult, touching his hair without asking, wolf-whistling, yelling innuendo in something that felt dangerously real and threatening. Teddy wondered sometimes, how many of these people thought they owned him, and one night, looking through the messages Vic had sent him over email (particularly the work of an artist that resonated with him), he’d yelled, angrily, “I’m not some vague fucking concept that you dreamed up!”
the colour of his soul by @gothzabini