AN: I do not own Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling does. Damn it! I promised myself I wouldn't cry!

Yes, Your Highness

Prologue

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much, and their home was the perfect example of good and proper, unlike others, like the Appertees, of number seven, who were currently arguing for all the spying housewives to see, including one Petunia Dursley.

Thanks to her long neck, she was, without a doubt, the queen of gossips, feared and respected by all, or so that's what she often told herself. She gladly ignored the whispers and the glares directed toward her, and instead blamed her nephew, the young Harry Potter, for her bad reputation amongst even the worst of her peers.

And so, to compensate, she did what everyone would do to hide their true self according to her: she made sure she'd always have the best house, inside and outside, in all Privet Drive, if not Little Whinging.

Their attic was regularly cleaned up and emptied, never mind that it was rarely used at all. The wood floor of the corridors and different bedrooms was polished every month until it shined even in the night, and the walls of the first floor were currently painted a blinding yellow, making a rather… interesting contrast with the green and pink trinkets, and other colorful photographs mostly showcasing what appeared to be a large pink beach ball having gone through a transformation and now sharing many similarities with a small blonde whale.

The lavender curtains moved slightly with an unseen wind, bringing some much needed air to the impeccable living room, and chasing away the heavy smell of bacon and grease coming from the kitchen.

The old stairs creaked under the weight of Dudley as he ran up to his bedroom, throwing the door open with unnecessary force, the sound of it banging against the wall echoing around the house. Of course, his actions were left without a comment on his proud parents' part, for the now 11 years-old was rather spoiled, as proven by the many toys littering his floor, most of them broken; and, really, who could blame him for his enthusiasm? After all, you had only one birthday per year!

While adjusting a rather boring dark blue tie and missing the spot of juice on it, Vernon Dursley chuckled.

"Atta boy!" he laughed, his mustache shaking along his nearly inexistent neck and big belly, as if agreeing with the beefy man.

He looked around the room, searching for his maroon vest, and made a small sound of victory when he spotted it on the red chair standing out against the pale pink of the room.

Hearing her husband walking down the stairs, she turned and smiled at the sight of him, so prim and proper.

"Petunia dear, today's breakfast was absolutely delicious! "

"Thank you Vernony-boo! Anything for my sweetums' special day!"

None of them bothered to mention the one who prepared this great meal, and the one before, and the one after… Even though the cook was in the "room" right next to the kitchen, and so, could probably hear everything.

"Are all the presents on the table? Is the camera ready?"

"Yes, all thirty-six of them! Could you go and fetch the boy?" the last part was almost spit out.

"But, Pety, you know how much the little tyke dislikes him! It will ruin his day, I tell you!"

"Someone has to hold the camera! I want a beautiful picture to remind us of this beautiful day."

With a great sigh, Vernon slowly made his way toward the cupboard under the stairs, and paused.

After a second or two, he shook himself and unlocked the door. In the dark, cramped space, shining emerald eyes stared back at him, and he barely repressed a full-body shiver. Oh, how he hated those blasted eyes! Always so defiant, always so judging, always so…beautiful. But he hated their owner so much more! The quite boy was so despicable, with his fake polite and docile attitude, his silence gave people time to think about his reputation and their actions. He thrusted the camera in the boy's face, nearly hitting him.

"Take this and come in the kitchen. If you break it…" he threatened.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

The bored tone tested his patience even further.

"And no funny business, understand? If anything happens to ruin Dudley's day, this cupboard will be the only thing you'll see for the next month!"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon." He tightened his fists until his fingers turned white, and was that purple on his face?

"Now, boy!"

The child unfurled his legs, and lazily got out of his sanctuary, hands in the pockets of his used and oversized sweatpants. Without any sound, he entered the kitchen and waited for the happy family to pose for yet another photo to proudly expose on the mantelpiece.

After throwing the initial and obligatory glare in his direction, the three Dursleys put on their best smiles. They looked real enough, although, Harry thought with a small, mirthless smile, everybody would be happy if they had thirty-six presents to open, even Dudley. He couldn't tell whether the parents' reason was that their son was not throwing a tantrum for once, or because they were truly proud of the little brat.

Probably a mix of the two, he concluded with a shrug.

The click of the camera seemed to be the signal for Dudley, and he rushed to the table, already starting the painfully long process of counting the gifts.

"Keep going, boy, I want to fill the album of this year with my little angel's smile."

Considering that every smile his cousin made reminded Harry of a sociopath or a serial-killer, depending on the situation, he wisely decided to keep his comments to himself as usual. With a wordless word, the young boy returned to his depressing work, which basically consisted of watching Dudley getting everything he would never have, at least not under this roof, while knowing that at least 70 per cent of those objects would end up crushed, either by accident or because they were getting too frustrating and refused to comply to his every demand. Harry could relate. The survivors would most likely be the books that Aunt Petunia stubbornly kept offering her spoiled son, despite the fact that he had never, and probably never would, show any interest in them. The clever boy was already thinking about a plan to give them the proper respect they deserved. He threw a glance toward the rapidly decreasing pile of gifts, and risked a small smile. Today, the hunt was good. He had only ever read extract from Peter Pan in class, and the illustration on Alice in Wonderland promised an interesting story. But the disregarded objects that really made his fingers itch were the charcoal pencils and the drawing pad, both of high quality, so much different from his own, and his smile grew just a little bit.

Harry had been thankful for his cousin's wicked lies only one time in his life. For if Dudley hadn't stolen his drawings from school and proudly showed them to his parents, claiming them as his own, of course, Aunt Petunia would never have proclaimed him as the new artistic phenomenon of this century, nay, this millennium; and though Vernon had grumbled about worthless, good for nothing artists, even he had to admit that, for a seven years-old, the talent behind the work was undeniable.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Harry. The compliments that he had always dreamed of had finally arrived, but they were for Dudley, not him. Still, the young artist always got a sick kind of pleasure when he heard the parents' bragging about their young prodigy, telling him that this was yet another proof of their son's superiority over him, all the while knowing that if they knew he was the target of their praise, they would probably have a heart attack.

Knowing this made it very hard for him not to tell them the truth.

So yes, while Harry hated his cousin with a passion, he was also very grateful; for it was thanks to him, that Harry had a dream.

On this fated day, when Aunt Petunia had barked at him to prepare a great feast to honor her son, while hugging and kissing her smugly grinning little baby, Harry had remained frozen on the spot. He had been so angry then, but so surprised too. Sure, he had taken the assignment seriously and was proud of the result, but it wasn't that good, right? If it wasn't for the fact that he'd had the best grade of his class and that his teacher had personally congratulated him on his work, he would have thought nothing of it. After, the old hag that was his aunt couldn't stop crying for nearly an hour when her son had given her a half-eaten home-made noodle necklace on mother's day.

And so that night, lying on his cot under the stairs, unable to sleep, he wondered.

If his drawings really were this good, and even now, he barely believed it; did that mean that he could have a… future? All his life, people had belittled him, treating him as though he was a delinquent, the scum of society, not worth the 'kindness' of his relatives.

But his stay at their home - not his, never his - was not free. He was their over-worked gardener, cook, maid, and everything they could desire. He had only ever wanted to be a part of this family, but they had been very clear about that: he was their 'useless freeloader', and nothing could change that. When he finally stopped trying to win their affections, it was both as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and a part of him had died.

But thanks to them, he had many house-holding skills that would surely be useful to someone willing to pay him for his hard work. He could get a job, or maybe more, enough to be able to rent a small studio, after all, he was used to cramped space. He could sell his drawings; maybe buy a spot in a park. He could spend the rest of his life doing something he loved, and be paid for it!

He could finally prove to all of those disdainful people that he could become someone, unlike them.

And so, that night, he swore to himself that on day he would leave this house, and never look back.

He was snapped out of his thoughts rather brutally.

Dudley, having caught a glimpse of Harry's smile, had taken the first thing that could fit in his meaty hand, a beautifully crafted Nutcracker, and threw it at his cousin's head.

With a small cry, Harry dropped to his knees and raised his hands to his forehead. He could already feel a light bump. Hearing his aunt rushing to his side, sounding very worried, he looked up, startled and stupefied. What the...?

"The camera!"

Harry let out a sigh of annoyance. He should have known. Feeling vindictive, he took advantage of the commotion to slip the toy in his pocket. Nobody noticed, too busy fussing over the unbroken camera. Feeling his uncle's hand taking a fistful of his hair, Harry cringed and hissed in pain when he started tugging.

"We gave you one order, boy! One!" his uncle barked in his ear.

Against his better judgement, the young boy scowled.

"It's not even broken!"

His uncle's face turned into a fascinating shade of purple.

"You-! Clean up this mess, and get back in your cupboard! If I hear one complaint…!"

Harry clenched his jaw and bowed his head, his dark bangs overshadowing his poisonous eyes, breathtaking in their fury. He gave a jerky nod, and set to work on the sea of torn wrapping paper. Behind him, he could hear his Aunt hurriedly promising to a screaming Dudley that she wouldn't let 'the mean little brat' ruin his day.

Sometimes, when he felt particularly poetic, Harry thought that Dudley looked like an angry god – with the looks of a pig with a wig, yes, but a god nonetheless - and he wondered if this was the reason Dudley got so many gifts. Were his parents trying to appease him? Or were they worshipping him? But then, Dudley would start bawling, snot and fat fake tears running down his face, and the illusion would shatter like glass.

Hiding the books and the arts supplies under his large shirt, he turned around and stared at the trio he so hated.

"Done."

With a grunt, Vernon escorted him back to his cupboard, and reminded him of the consequences of his acts, before locking door.

Huffing angrily, Harry lay down on the thin mattress and waited until he heard the front door shutting with a soft click before he let out a scream of frustration.

Why did his so-called family have to be so insufferable? Why did he have to live them?

Why did his parents have to die?

The last part was thought softly and sadly.

Why had his parents been so selfish that they had drove around while being drunk and with him in the backseat?

Weren't adults supposed to be the responsible ones?

His dark thoughts seemed to bleed into his drawings, and he only noticed that he had taken out his art supplies when the mine of the pencil broke under the pressure.

Upon seeing what he had drawn, he let out a small laugh and his thoughts brightened. The motorbike of his dreams - literally and figuratively - seemed to be flying, caught in mid-jump like that. The driver was just a dark blur, as usual, almost invisible against the starry night.

He carefully hid the pad under his cot and decided to sleep until dinner. The Dursleys always said that he wouldn't leave his cupboard for a month, but if he did, then who would cook and do the choirs? He hadn't seen Petunia doing any housework since he was old enough to lift the frying pan and read the cooking books. No, as much as they hated it, they needed him, they depended of him. And one day, he would use this to make them pay.

His opportunity appeared two months later in the form of a letter, addressed to one stupefied Harry Potter.

Hello Gentle Readers!

Kind of nervous about this chapter, 'cause it's my first fanfic ever, so...

A little 'warning', english is not my first language, so if you spot any mistakes, about the culture or the grammar, please let me know.

Well, hope you liked it, if you did, you know what to do.