It started with one word. The little baby boy looked adoringly up at the young woman coming towards him. He did not register the way she seemed to be dragging her feet across the floor, nor the way her lips were pursed in a thin line. He simply reached his chubby fingers out and cooed, "Ma…"

The woman's cold demeanor froze into solid ice. Her hands curled into fists as she glared at the boy and snapped, "I am not your Mother!"

The boy was very confused. He saw the other child in his house saying that. When it happened, the young woman's eyes would light up and she would bury the child in kisses.

But perhaps it was just a coincidence. He would keep on trying.

The little boy, Harry, had aged a few years. Just enough for his mind to expand and wonder. At least, as much as it could under those circumstances.

Dudley was up in his room again. No, his two rooms that he was constantly switching in between. Harry didn't have a single one.

In school, one of his teachers had talked about the power of siblings, and how they were the most loyal people you would ever meet. Maybe it would be a brother, who would make you laugh in the most stressful of times, or a sister, who would stand by you even when the rest of the world has turned against you.

Siblings, Harry concluded, were not supposed to take everything away from you, or accidentally hurt you while playing soccer. They weren't supposed to avoid you whenever possible except for insults and jokes.

Then again, the teacher also mentioned that sibling rivalry was a very common thing that tended to happen. Perhaps that was the only thing at play. Just a brief bit of sibling rivalry. One day, he and Dudley would be true brothers. Dudley would be a knight for him. They would stand guard together against the rest of the world. So many only children he knew tended to feel lonely. Harry felt lonely anyway, but that was temporary.

And yet, that didn't explain the confusion he'd felt when he'd noticed the rest of the school seemed to continue gravitating away from him. He'd been naive enough to ask what was wrong, and got no answer. At least, not until he caught Dudley making fun of him in front of everyone. He hadn't taken it well, but it had only made things worse.

But siblings made fun of each other sometimes. Right? Except that when Harry tried to make fun of him, he would get yelled at. Still, that was no big problem…

Right now, though, the topic of Dudley's two rooms had taken the main focus. The way he learned it, each kid should ideally get their own room or share if there weren't enough. There were two perfectly good bedrooms available for him and Dudley, so why didn't he receive one?

He found himself walking towards Petunia. Her veins were bulging, as they always seemed to whenever he walked up to her, although he liked to ignore it. She snapped her head towards him. "What?"

"M-I mean, Aunt Petunia…why can't I have Dudley's second bedroom?" Well, there was no reason to beat around the bush.

Petunia stared at him in shock, her fingers tightening around the plate she was holding. Harry was almost afraid she was going to beat him on the head with it, but she set it down. Instead, she marched towards him and gave him two sharp pinches. His skin cried out, and he backed away.

"Why would I ever let you have it?" she growled. "My little Dudley deserves to have everything. What have you done to deserve anything?"

"I-I've done all the chores," he stammered. "And-"

"I don't want to hear any of it. Maybe if you actually improve yourself, I'll listen. And don't ask questions!" She walked off before Harry could get a reply out, as if just speaking to him for a minute was a painful trial.

Slowly, he recovered. She was right, wasn't she? He needed to make himself better somehow. He could do that. He could totally do that. If he was quieter, and if he didn't ask questions…

For now, it would be back to the cupboard. But he would keep on trying.

Harry nearly tripped over his feet as he ran home from school. Normally, he would become exhausted. (Petunia picked Dudley up from school, but they made him walk home.) Today however, there was a spring in his step so high that he almost feared he would end up on the school roof again.

He'd just spent ages working on the drawing. Some of the others in the class snickered at it, but his teacher sang nothing but praise. He was sure Petunia and Vernon would love it.

He arrived at home much quicker than he usually did. He reached for the door and swung it open. "Uncle-"

"Don't swing the door like that!" Vernon roared as he sat in the living room with his newspaper. "You'll break it!"

"Sorry…" Harry murmured. He cautiously shut the door. His heart sagged as he realized Vernon was reading the newspaper. He'd made it more than clear that he was not to be disturbed while doing this, but Harry just couldn't resist.

"Look at this!"

"Look at what?" he sighed, clearly trying to hold his temper in. It was an improvement.

Harry grinned as he raised the piece of paper. "This!" It was a meticulously drawn image, a huge contrast to his usual scribblings and outside-the-line-coloring. It depicted four people, three blondes and one with messy black hair, together and smiling widely. The artistry wasn't the prettiest, but the sheer joy dumped into every line was enough to make it beautiful.

"We had to draw pictures of our families today," Harry said. "Can we hang it up with Dudley's drawings?"

"No." The word sounded cool, but any attempt at holding his temper had long since been abandoned by Vernon. He snatched the paper and crumpled it up, tossing it towards the floor. "Throw it away. I don't want that on our wall."

"But…" Harry's heart sunk. "But I worked so hard on…"

"Throw it away!"

The shout vibrated in Harry's chest. He picked up the crumpled paper, but made no move for the trash. Instead, he took it to the cupboard and set it in the corner, trying to force himself to smile through his breaking heart.

Later, he would get rid of it with no regrets. But for right now, he stared at the paper and vowed to keep on trying.

It was July 31st. Harry had been mentally counting down the days for a month now. Every year he'd watched Dudley nearly drown in the landslide of gifts he'd been given while Harry had nothing.

But he'd been trying. He'd been working far harder than usual to appease Petunia and Vernon. He did all the chores without being asked, didn't speak unless spoken to, hid whenever guests were over without complaint, quit asking questions, and stopped trying to defend himself when Dudley and his gang made fun of him.

He woke up much brighter and earlier than usual. Although the temptation to wake the others up earlier was high, he knew better than to annoy them now. Instead, he worked on preparing breakfast for the entire family.

When the others finally came down, Harry half exploded with anticipation. Still, he kept everything inside. Petunia and Vernon made no comment about Harry's meal and did not thank him. Petunia merely remarked, "It's a bit dry," before she went off to help Dudley install his new game. Vernon left to watch the news, and Harry was left sitting completely alone at the table, only allowed to eat the leftovers of the very meal he just made.

Alright, it was no big deal. They would remember at some point. Maybe they were even planning a surprise party like they did for Dudley that one year. (Although they didn't get to see it through completion because Dudley threw a tantrum, at first thinking he would get no presents at all.) It would be fine. He just had to wait.

He waited.

He waited some more.

He waited even more.

Soon, the evening came. Harry had grown impatient. Not only did they not acknowledge his birthday, they didn't even acknowledge him unless they needed him to do something. He at least thought they would have been a little nicer.

Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley were all seated in the living room, going about their usual evening. It was going to be time for them to sleep soon. He couldn't wait any longer…

"It's my birthday!"

He'd planned to at least try and get their attention first, but the words just slipped out.

Petunia and Vernon stared at him. Dudley snickered.

"Oh, right…" Petunia said.

"Here's your present." A wave in Harry's heart swelled with hope, but it immediately crashed to the shore when Vernon tossed an old sock across the room. It fell at his feet, looking just as sad and abandoned as Harry felt.

"But...I behaved better this year."

"You should be grateful," Petunia replied. She had that look in her eyes, that look that told Harry she was about to completely disregard him and do something else.

"Why should I be grateful when he gets thirty presents?" He didn't mean for his voice to be so loud. He simply couldn't contain himself.

"Because he deserves it!" Vernon sat up in his chair. "Do you deserve anything?"

"I do. I'm the one who's doing all the chores, not him-"

"We're making you do the chores because you can't do anything else right!" Petunia had enough, staring at Harry as if he was the dirt she was always making him clean. "We're making you do the chores because you are not our son."

Harry visibly flinched. No response came out.

"And I don't care what you do or how good you think you're behaving. It doesn't matter, and it's never going to start. Why can't you just understand? You will never be a part of this family."

Harry didn't realize he was running. His legs just carried him away. Away from the glaring and Dudley's laughing and everything that had been pushing him out of the house from day one.

He finally collapsed to the floor, staring bitterly around at his "bedroom." Dudley was constantly bombarded with love and affection, while Harry had nothing to show but a cupboard filled with spiders.

Slowly, he found himself reaching for the old drawing. It was a year old now, and he still had it. But all the smiling faces were a lie. They were right, weren't they? His real parents were gone and he was never going to see them again. He was not part of their family. Why had he even bothered convincing himself otherwise?

He ripped whatever bit of material he could. Over and over again, the fire building and building until the drawing was just a pile of shredded remains lying on the ground. This was not his family, and it never would be.

He was done trying.