Flower Power || AU
Harry was feeling pretty down and out that morning. He'd just moved to a new town where he knew literally no one, and it seemed like everyone whom he came into contact with already had some important, or something more important to do than get to know him. The teen was starting his first day of classes that day, and he wasn't quite ready. He'd barely finished looping together the newest of his beauties and had topped his curled head with ringlets of little daisies and grandmother's lace in the process of making sure he looked presentable for the newest part of his life, and he was going to try and be optimistic. Besides- just because his general social life wasn't going so well didn't mean he would struggle in an environment were he actually ahd to talk to people and be friendly. This was a positive outlook for him, he he took it in stride, straightening his little flower crown and smoothing out his white v-neck.
Harry, unfortunately, hadn't expected the cruelty of teenagers to be quite how it was. Back in Cheshire, he'd had a multitude of good friends and had even been relatively popular. In Doncaster, the people were far less understanding. They mocked and teased him for his gangley height and pretty little daisies. Apparently, wearing flowers automatically made the wearer a faggot and therefore not interesting or desirable to be around at all. After his first lunch period, little Hazza was about ready to throw his day out the window and call for his mum to come get him. He hadn't eaten much at all, though he probably would have had he not been shunned to a small shoddy table in the back of the room. His ego was bare, his great big eyes were welling, and as if in reflection of his sour mood, his flowers were wilting. He was quite miserable, and wouldn't be at all upset if the school just- ... Exploded or something. (This was of course a lie- had the school exploded, Harry probably would have bawled for months on end in respect of the cretins lost lives.)
He was headed off to his next class now, still clinging on to the desperate hope that someone wasn't a raging twat in this catastrophe of an education center. Art wasn't a bad subject at all for him, in fact, he revelled in his pretty strong talent. His favorite subject was of course his favorite to draw- flowers- and while he waited patiently for the class to begin (by himself, of course, away from the whispering asses that seemed to still get a kick out of his crown) he idly sketched one out. It had been a long, unpleasant day. He needed something fun and entertaining to try and cope.
