Disclaimer: I do not own any character's or ideas that you may recognize.
Prologue
"I am Prince James Potter of Wingardia."
Liar. Harry Dursley shook his head at the reflection in the compact mirror he held in his left hand. He didn't feel particularly prince like at the moment.
A head-to-toe makeover, courtesy of his new friends-Severus Snape, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin; fond relations of Harry's employer, King Albus of Wingardia-had done nothing to change the man inside.
James' barber had added highlights to Harry's dark and messy nest and arranged it into a sophisticated do. Sirius had hired the staff from a trendy New York spa to help him relax for tonight's ordeal. James, the one nearest Harry's own build had lent him a smashing outfit of the best cloth so that Harry could attend the Crimson Charity Ball in the Prince's place. Meanwhile James planned to take his wife Lily on their second honeymoon.
Prince for a night. A dream come true.
Harry huffed a sigh through his clenched teeth and tugged at the hem of his shirt. "Some Cinder-Harry I turned out to be."
He might look like a prince on the outside, but inside Harry still felt like that shy assistant who'd grown up in Surrey. The quiet boy who fantasized about life's grand adventures while keeping the house organized and running well. The dutiful nephew who had put his dreams on hold to pay back his aunt and uncle for raising him, so they reminded him frequently.
His three fairy godparents might have transformed his outward appearance with stylists and a suit, but no one had waved a magic want over his self-confidence.
Harry looked into the compact mirror and repeated her message, wondering if he'd believe it any more the second time around. "I am Prince James Potter of Wingardia."
"Sir?"
Startled by the intrusion into his conflicting world of self-talk and self-doubt, Harry jumped. The compact snapped together and clattered to the sidewalk at her feet. He lifted his fingers to adjust the rims of his glasses and nearly poked himself in the eye.
"Drat." He'd forgotten. There were non glasses tonight. No green metal rims weighed down by thick lenses to hide behind. No fuzzy world were inched beyond the end of his nose. Tonight he wore contact lenses and could see without his glasses.
Tonight the world could see him.
He pushed his way past the billowing robes to retrieve the mirror. But the woman in the black chauffeur's uniform beat him to it.
"Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to startle you." Harry froze, bent over, eye to eye with the sandy-haired, middle-aged woman. She looked pleasant enough, a tad stout, and her uniform smelled of cigarette smoke. But she possessed the drawl of a native New Yorker. She smiled as her black gloved fingers brushed against his. "Here you go."
"Thank you." Small talk had never been his forte, but at least he'd managed to speak.
"Allow me." The chauffeur extended her hand and Harry took it, wrapping his fingers around hers and balancing himself as he stood. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
Or not.
Somehow reality never lived up to the fantasy.
The woman's gaze focused at a point well below his eyes. He snatched his hand away in a rush of dignified self-defense as he realized her fascination centered on the crotch of his pants, not himself.
Harry flipped the robe in front, hiding everything from his waist to his ankles from her view. He tilted his chin at a regal angle and ignored the clicking sound of disappointment she made with her tongue.
"Where's Paulo?" he asked. Paulo was the Potter's regular driver, a young and unassuming man who tended to mind his own business. How unpleasant that he'd been replaced with this leering madame.
"I'm just the substitute, sir, called in from the driving service for the night." She walked to the rear door of the limousine and opened it for him. "Can't tell you why the regular guy didn't show."
"And you know the way to the Crimson Ball?" He clutched his black leather briefcase, which contained the invitation to the gala.
She smiled again. He found the effect less charming this time. "Yes, Your Highness. I have my instructions."
Harry climbed in and slid to the center of the black leather seat, pulling his robes along behind him before she could tuck them inside the car.
Your Highness.
Would anyone besides this lady really believe he was a prince?
After she got behind the wheel and pulled the limo into traffic, Harry opened the silver compact and looked into the mirror once more.
Staring back at him with eyes a mite too big to be sexy was that little boy who knew more about household chores than he did about high fashion. He could balance numbers, take dictation and jury-rig a computer program better than he could carry on a casual conversation. He understood the intricacies of government duty better than he could anyone's flirtation.
And though his heart longed for adventure-while he longed to be a man who lived adventure-he was content to mind his place in the world.
Except for tonight.
In a few weeks he and the king and his entourage would return to Wingardia, a tiny seaside country nestled between France and Spain. He'd don his glasses and put on his sensible suit. He'd fade into the woodwork and do his job with impeccable reliability and the satisfaction of knowing he worked for a kindhearted, generous man.
He had to play Cinder-Harry now--or never.
Harry squared his chin and picked up a champagne glass from the console in the side wall of the limo. He didn't fill it. He didn't wan any alcohol to impair his memories of this special night.
The Potters had given him too much. He couldn't let them down by surrendering to shyness and self-doubt.
He lifted the glass and toasted his alter ego for the night. "I am Prince James Potter of Wingardia."
He let his silk robe fall down his shoulders. A prince would carry himself with precise posture. He fingered the wristband of diamonds and rubies that matched the cufflinks of his suit, marveling at how the facets caught and reflected in the limo's back window.
Harry frowned and moved his face closer to the smoked glass and peered outside at the buildings towering above her on either side of the street. He bunched his robe up to his knees, climbed over to the opposite seat and knocked on the see-through partition. "Driver?" The partition opened halfway. "Are you sure you know the way to the ball? I have a pretty good sense of direction. We should be heading east, but we're going north."
She muttered something under her breath before smiling at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "I have to take the long way around, sir, because of construction. Don't worry. I'll get you where you need to be."
A detour hadn't been part of his Cinderella fantasy. "Are you sure? I don't want to be late."
"We're almost there."
The partition closed before he could ask the name of the street they were on. He raised his first to knock again, but then pulled it back down to her lap. A prince wouldn't crawl around the back of a limo, hounding the hired help.
A vague sense of unease that had nothing to do with his shyness rippled down his spine.
He put the champagne glass back in its slot and returned to his seat in the back. The endless city lights, which had beckoned to her house-bound heart like stars in the sky, now seemed to be flashing some kind of warning.
"I am Prince James-"
The limousine pulled to a stop. Harry reached for his glasses before remembering they weren't there. He caught the mistake and moved his fingers to tuck his hair behind his ear.
"All I want is one dance."
One dance. One waltz.
Harry's face relaxed into a smile.
"One dance, CinderHarry," he promised himself.
His confidence swelled with the less-daunting task.
Even if he had to grab one of the waitresses, he would have his dance.
Then he could run home to Wingardia before he turned into a pumpkin and embarrassed himself any further.
"Prince James?"
The door beside him opened and the driver reached in to help her out.
Harry softened her lips into a serene smile.
He stepped outside and his smile vanished.
Where was the red carpet? Where were the photographers? Where was the doorman with the white gloves to announce his arrival?
What was that gas pump doing in the middle of the parking lot?
"Driver?" Harry turned, but she had disappeared around the front of the car. He followed her, his uneasiness selling to outright suspicion. "Did we need to stop for gas?"
When he rounded the front fender, Harry gasped. A huge, hulking mountain of a man materialized from the shadows. With his hand on his chest he backed away. "Driver!"
The giant wore black from head to toe, including the stocking mask that covered his face. Black-gloved hands the size of bear traps reached for her.
"Stay away from me!" Harry yelled, then spun around to run, but smacked into the belly of a second man. "No!"
Stocky, and more than a foot shorter than the giant, this one wore the same faceless outfit. He grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back. "Load him up," he ordered.
He slammed into the wall of the giant. His arms closed around her like a vise, trapping his hands at his sides. The short man stuffed a pungent cloth into her mouth, muffling his cry for help. The big man slapped his hand over the gag and picked him up. Harry gasped for air, but the sting of chemicals burned his sinuses and brought tears to his eyes. The short man jogged ahead of them to a black car hidden in the shadows beside the gas station.
Actions drilled into him long ago from defending himself from his cousin kicked in. He twisted and jerked and jabbed.
He cursed and Harry's small victory thrilled him, giving him a rush of adrenaline and the strength to pry himself from his grasp. Harry landed hard on his knees on the concrete. But as the pain jolted through his bones all the way to his skull he pulled the gag from his mouth and screamed.
"Stop him!"
Harry tried to crawl, and his legs and robes tangled with the giant's feet and he tripped. He crashed to the ground and Harry dodged to the side.
He didn't get far. His head was swimming. It was too dark. It was happening too fast.
Raw with fear, Harry slapped at the hands that lifted him. The words were vile, the touches rough. A third man got out fo the car and opened the trunk.
Harry twisted, fought, struggled for air and begged for his life before they dumped him in. He landed beside a bundle of black laundry. He clawed at it to right himself, but succeeded only in rolling the bundle over and revealing a cold colorless face with blank, staring eyes.
Harry screamed.
But Paulo Giovanni, the Potter's chauffeur, never heard him.
"Shut him up!"
He didn't understand. Crazy observations floated through his blurring vision. Ski masks in June. Big man. Little man. Dead man.
Something sharp pricked his shoulder, and he yelped between gasps. A numbing sensation turned his limbs to jelly and his brain to mush.
By the time the trunk lid closed above him and he slumped into the inescapable darkness, he could think of only one thing.
He'd never gotten his dance.
Prologue
"I am Prince James Potter of Wingardia."
Liar. Harry Dursley shook his head at the reflection in the compact mirror he held in his left hand. He didn't feel particularly prince like at the moment.
A head-to-toe makeover, courtesy of his new friends-Severus Snape, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin; fond relations of Harry's employer, King Albus of Wingardia-had done nothing to change the man inside.
James' barber had added highlights to Harry's dark and messy nest and arranged it into a sophisticated do. Sirius had hired the staff from a trendy New York spa to help him relax for tonight's ordeal. James, the one nearest Harry's own build had lent him a smashing outfit of the best cloth so that Harry could attend the Crimson Charity Ball in the Prince's place. Meanwhile James planned to take his wife Lily on their second honeymoon.
Prince for a night. A dream come true.
Harry huffed a sigh through his clenched teeth and tugged at the hem of his shirt. "Some Cinder-Harry I turned out to be."
He might look like a prince on the outside, but inside Harry still felt like that shy assistant who'd grown up in Surrey. The quiet boy who fantasized about life's grand adventures while keeping the house organized and running well. The dutiful nephew who had put his dreams on hold to pay back his aunt and uncle for raising him, so they reminded him frequently.
His three fairy godparents might have transformed his outward appearance with stylists and a suit, but no one had waved a magic want over his self-confidence.
Harry looked into the compact mirror and repeated her message, wondering if he'd believe it any more the second time around. "I am Prince James Potter of Wingardia."
"Sir?"
Startled by the intrusion into his conflicting world of self-talk and self-doubt, Harry jumped. The compact snapped together and clattered to the sidewalk at her feet. He lifted his fingers to adjust the rims of his glasses and nearly poked himself in the eye.
"Drat." He'd forgotten. There were non glasses tonight. No green metal rims weighed down by thick lenses to hide behind. No fuzzy world were inched beyond the end of his nose. Tonight he wore contact lenses and could see without his glasses.
Tonight the world could see him.
He pushed his way past the billowing robes to retrieve the mirror. But the woman in the black chauffeur's uniform beat him to it.
"Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to startle you." Harry froze, bent over, eye to eye with the sandy-haired, middle-aged woman. She looked pleasant enough, a tad stout, and her uniform smelled of cigarette smoke. But she possessed the drawl of a native New Yorker. She smiled as her black gloved fingers brushed against his. "Here you go."
"Thank you." Small talk had never been his forte, but at least he'd managed to speak.
"Allow me." The chauffeur extended her hand and Harry took it, wrapping his fingers around hers and balancing himself as he stood. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
Or not.
Somehow reality never lived up to the fantasy.
The woman's gaze focused at a point well below his eyes. He snatched his hand away in a rush of dignified self-defense as he realized her fascination centered on the crotch of his pants, not himself.
Harry flipped the robe in front, hiding everything from his waist to his ankles from her view. He tilted his chin at a regal angle and ignored the clicking sound of disappointment she made with her tongue.
"Where's Paulo?" he asked. Paulo was the Potter's regular driver, a young and unassuming man who tended to mind his own business. How unpleasant that he'd been replaced with this leering madame.
"I'm just the substitute, sir, called in from the driving service for the night." She walked to the rear door of the limousine and opened it for him. "Can't tell you why the regular guy didn't show."
"And you know the way to the Crimson Ball?" He clutched his black leather briefcase, which contained the invitation to the gala.
She smiled again. He found the effect less charming this time. "Yes, Your Highness. I have my instructions."
Harry climbed in and slid to the center of the black leather seat, pulling his robes along behind him before she could tuck them inside the car.
Your Highness.
Would anyone besides this lady really believe he was a prince?
After she got behind the wheel and pulled the limo into traffic, Harry opened the silver compact and looked into the mirror once more.
Staring back at him with eyes a mite too big to be sexy was that little boy who knew more about household chores than he did about high fashion. He could balance numbers, take dictation and jury-rig a computer program better than he could carry on a casual conversation. He understood the intricacies of government duty better than he could anyone's flirtation.
And though his heart longed for adventure-while he longed to be a man who lived adventure-he was content to mind his place in the world.
Except for tonight.
In a few weeks he and the king and his entourage would return to Wingardia, a tiny seaside country nestled between France and Spain. He'd don his glasses and put on his sensible suit. He'd fade into the woodwork and do his job with impeccable reliability and the satisfaction of knowing he worked for a kindhearted, generous man.
He had to play Cinder-Harry now--or never.
Harry squared his chin and picked up a champagne glass from the console in the side wall of the limo. He didn't fill it. He didn't wan any alcohol to impair his memories of this special night.
The Potters had given him too much. He couldn't let them down by surrendering to shyness and self-doubt.
He lifted the glass and toasted his alter ego for the night. "I am Prince James Potter of Wingardia."
He let his silk robe fall down his shoulders. A prince would carry himself with precise posture. He fingered the wristband of diamonds and rubies that matched the cufflinks of his suit, marveling at how the facets caught and reflected in the limo's back window.
Harry frowned and moved his face closer to the smoked glass and peered outside at the buildings towering above her on either side of the street. He bunched his robe up to his knees, climbed over to the opposite seat and knocked on the see-through partition. "Driver?" The partition opened halfway. "Are you sure you know the way to the ball? I have a pretty good sense of direction. We should be heading east, but we're going north."
She muttered something under her breath before smiling at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "I have to take the long way around, sir, because of construction. Don't worry. I'll get you where you need to be."
A detour hadn't been part of his Cinderella fantasy. "Are you sure? I don't want to be late."
"We're almost there."
The partition closed before he could ask the name of the street they were on. He raised his first to knock again, but then pulled it back down to her lap. A prince wouldn't crawl around the back of a limo, hounding the hired help.
A vague sense of unease that had nothing to do with his shyness rippled down his spine.
He put the champagne glass back in its slot and returned to his seat in the back. The endless city lights, which had beckoned to her house-bound heart like stars in the sky, now seemed to be flashing some kind of warning.
"I am Prince James-"
The limousine pulled to a stop. Harry reached for his glasses before remembering they weren't there. He caught the mistake and moved his fingers to tuck his hair behind his ear.
"All I want is one dance."
One dance. One waltz.
Harry's face relaxed into a smile.
"One dance, CinderHarry," he promised himself.
His confidence swelled with the less-daunting task.
Even if he had to grab one of the waitresses, he would have his dance.
Then he could run home to Wingardia before he turned into a pumpkin and embarrassed himself any further.
"Prince James?"
The door beside him opened and the driver reached in to help her out.
Harry softened her lips into a serene smile.
He stepped outside and his smile vanished.
Where was the red carpet? Where were the photographers? Where was the doorman with the white gloves to announce his arrival?
What was that gas pump doing in the middle of the parking lot?
"Driver?" Harry turned, but she had disappeared around the front of the car. He followed her, his uneasiness selling to outright suspicion. "Did we need to stop for gas?"
When he rounded the front fender, Harry gasped. A huge, hulking mountain of a man materialized from the shadows. With his hand on his chest he backed away. "Driver!"
The giant wore black from head to toe, including the stocking mask that covered his face. Black-gloved hands the size of bear traps reached for her.
"Stay away from me!" Harry yelled, then spun around to run, but smacked into the belly of a second man. "No!"
Stocky, and more than a foot shorter than the giant, this one wore the same faceless outfit. He grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back. "Load him up," he ordered.
He slammed into the wall of the giant. His arms closed around her like a vise, trapping his hands at his sides. The short man stuffed a pungent cloth into her mouth, muffling his cry for help. The big man slapped his hand over the gag and picked him up. Harry gasped for air, but the sting of chemicals burned his sinuses and brought tears to his eyes. The short man jogged ahead of them to a black car hidden in the shadows beside the gas station.
Actions drilled into him long ago from defending himself from his cousin kicked in. He twisted and jerked and jabbed.
He cursed and Harry's small victory thrilled him, giving him a rush of adrenaline and the strength to pry himself from his grasp. Harry landed hard on his knees on the concrete. But as the pain jolted through his bones all the way to his skull he pulled the gag from his mouth and screamed.
"Stop him!"
Harry tried to crawl, and his legs and robes tangled with the giant's feet and he tripped. He crashed to the ground and Harry dodged to the side.
He didn't get far. His head was swimming. It was too dark. It was happening too fast.
Raw with fear, Harry slapped at the hands that lifted him. The words were vile, the touches rough. A third man got out fo the car and opened the trunk.
Harry twisted, fought, struggled for air and begged for his life before they dumped him in. He landed beside a bundle of black laundry. He clawed at it to right himself, but succeeded only in rolling the bundle over and revealing a cold colorless face with blank, staring eyes.
Harry screamed.
But Paulo Giovanni, the Potter's chauffeur, never heard him.
"Shut him up!"
He didn't understand. Crazy observations floated through his blurring vision. Ski masks in June. Big man. Little man. Dead man.
Something sharp pricked his shoulder, and he yelped between gasps. A numbing sensation turned his limbs to jelly and his brain to mush.
By the time the trunk lid closed above him and he slumped into the inescapable darkness, he could think of only one thing.
He'd never gotten his dance.