Okay, so this story has been floating around in my head for a really long time, and I decided I would try to write it. The chapters are going to be really really short, because if I try to write long ones then I get bogged down and end up not updating at all. So, yeah. Hopefully this fic is going to be pretty long, so enjoy the show!

When Harry was younger, he used to stay up in his cupboard, staring at the ceiling, dreaming that some long-lost family would scoop him up and steal him away from his Aunt and Uncle. He used to dream that there was somebody out there who loved him like a parent loved a child, who would patch him up when he got hurt and tell him he was special and important. The problem with this dream of his was that his actual dreams were seldom so kind as his daydreams:

(A flash of bright, neon green light -

A shaky gasp -

Feathers against his skin, bright white wings that sent spurts of gentle, cruel fire across his face -)

-And when he woke up the next morning-and inevitably he did, he always did-he would come crashing back down to reality. The walls were still patchy and lined with dirt, the closet was as claustrophobic as ever, and any minute his aunt would come banging on his door, screaming at him to wake up and to come make breakfast.

As he grew, he slowly came to resent his dream, of homey comfort and a mother's touch, because of the utter futility of it. Yes, it was wonderful to imagine his father's calloused hands, weathered from work but still kind despite the roughness. However, when he left his imagination, it made his reality all that much crueler.

His mother read him a bedtime story, and let him watch over her shoulder so he could start to understand the words - Petunia scolded him harshly for getting a better score than Dudley on a reading assignment. His father threw the ball to him, grinning with identical wide, green eyes, and let out a shout of laughter when Harry missed - Vernon laughed at him cruelly when Harry expressed his desire to join the football team, because who would want a little freak like him?

And to Harry, this became one of the evident facts of life: that while reality was cruel, the fantasies one held onto made it that much worse. It was better to just accept whatever situation he was in, because otherwise he would go crazy under the sheer weight of it all. He had no family coming to rescue him, and therefore it was better to stop pretending there would be; there was no such thing as magic, and therefore he was not going to be sent away to a magical boarding school for the rest of his education.

He was around nine when he carved these words into his soul, made them part of his existence, part of his way of thinking. He assumed that this would always be the case, because he was just a child, and when you're a child you tend to assume that your life is going to stay the same forever.

He was eleven or so when this rule was smashed to pieces, by a giant man with an even bigger attitude.

It started like this:

Harry woke up the same way he did every morning; in utter silence.

One moment, he was deep in dreamland, his consciousness just beginning to stir from its peaceful rest, and the next, his eyes had flown open. He stared at nothing and everything at once, still disoriented from his abrupt awakening, before zeroing in on the dust motes floating listlessly in the air. Sunlight didn't reach inside his cupboard, and yet he was able to perfectly see the particles drifting aimlessly...

And then he really woke up.

Oh, Harry thought, furrowing his eyebrows at the darkness, blinking so that his eyes could focus on the light slanting through the slats of the door. It's Dudley's birthday today, isn't it.

Not that this was a special occasion or anything; quite the opposite, in fact. Dudley's birthday, for Harry at least, meant more chores, more running from Dudley's stupid friends, and more time spent with old Mrs. Figg. who liked to bore and torture him by showing him picture after picture of her many dead cats. But she wasn't so bad, he supposed. At least she...you know, tried to feed him, even if the food hadn't been edible since the Cold War.

Harry let out a soft sigh and flopped listlessly onto his back, staring at sharpness of the stairs, and the faded crayon drawings from years ago. Judging from the angle and brightness of the light coming through the slats, his aunt would be by to wake him up in about ten minutes or so. There was no point in trying to open the cupboard door, as it was probably still locked-last night his aunt had told him that she didn't want him stealing any of Dudley's presents. Like that's what he would steal-the pantry sounded much more appetizing, especially since he was just coming off a punishment. Eating one meal a day did nothing about the hunger pangs that had plagued him the whole last week.

As Harry thought about it, images of delicious food began dancing in the air around him-baked chicken and mashed potatoes with thick gravy, steaming apple pies that smelled strongly of fragrant cinnamon, frying bacon that sizzled and cracked like-

Bam!

Harry was so surprised he fell off the bed.

"Wake up! Time to make breakfast! And don't you burn it, I want everything to be perfect for Dudley's special day!" Aunt Petunia shrieked, her voice only slightly more melodious than a dying cat. Thankfully, after that rather pointed statement, she marched her way into the kitchen, muttering under her breath.

Harry gasped quietly, trying to get his heart to start beating again, because holy crap that had been really scary! He'd completely forgotten about his aunt...because he'd been daydreaming about food. Not again, Harry thought sourly, throwing one arm across his face and gritting his teeth at his own stupidity. You know the rule.

He sighed and lifted himself from the hardwood floor. Time to start another day in paradise….