As a great man once said, "If you're one in a million, there are ten of you in New York." This is a fic about the struggle to be unique.

Miaka Kennyuuki

Genre: Humor/Romance

Category: Harry Potter

Pairings: H/D, etc

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: slash, language, a few Goth/Punk/Prep/RichKid cliches.

Disclaimer: See spot. See spot run. See spot run past the sign that proclaims my total legal unattachment to all things Harry Potter. See spot run faster when he sees my shrine to Draco Malfoy, nude pics and all. snicker

Summary: Tudor is a straightlaced, well bred town. Nothing interesting ever happens there. That is, until some new residents move in. slash

UNIQUE - One

He grinned as he twirled in front of the mirror, proud of his non-generic appearance. Baggy black pants with strips of orange hanging of them at odd intervals encased his legs, almost covering his fire truck red custom Vans sneakers. A glaringly orange tank top with the words "Mumble mumble...was I saying something?" emblazoned in green on the front, a red overshirt overlapping it, hugged his chest. His unruly black hair was streaked with dark green, matching his bright eyes. Red tinted prescription frameless glasses sat on his small nose, above his full, red lips.

Harry Potter, son of the head of Potter Records (a recording company) blew his mirror image kisses. "This is sure to shock those uptight nancy boys on Dad's board of directors," he said, grinning.

"Harry, really, must you piss off your Dad this much all the time?" asked Harry's cousin, Neville Longbottom. Neville had brown hair, brown eyes, a homely face, and a much more conservative style of clothing. He was dressed in straight legged khaki pants and a navy blue polo shirt. His parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, worked with Harry's father promoting singers and songwriters for Potter Records.

Harry sighed. "You know I do, Nev. Dad used to be such fun. Now he's a stiff just like the rest of those rich bitch bastards on the board," he whined. "Remember when he was lead singer of the Marauders? He was so cool." He scowled. "But then that bloody prat Pettigrew sold them out for that new company, Voldemort Inc. Like he can even sing." Harry mimed spitting on the floor. After all, he was still the son of someone important. He couldn't acually spit on anything.

"Sirius and Remus are still around, Harry. Sirius owns that motorcycle shop now, and Remus still sings sometimes. Eveyone's happy in their own way," Neville assured. "Don't worry so much. I'm sure Uncle James knows what he's doing."

"Sure, Nev," Harry scoffed. "If he signs that stupid bint Pansy Parkinson, regardless of her talents, I'll smack him so hard he'll forget he's English!"

"Whatever, Harry," Neville said, used to his cousin's rants. "If you're going to piss off your Dad, you might want to do it now. The meeting's letting out soon."

Harry grinned. "Right-O, Nev. You coming?" Harry said.

"No, Har. My birthday's coming up. I'd rather not piss off your Dad," Neville answered, laughing.

Harry looked confused. "My birthday's the same as yours, Nev," he said.

"Exactly, Harry. If you want that Firebolt, you're going to have to abort this mission," Neville pointed out. "Only two weeks away."

Pouting, Harry turned back to his reflection. He really did want that Kawasaki Firebolt model motorcycle. He grinned. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe his father loosening up would be worth the Firebolt.

"Sorry, Nev. I'm on a mission. Dad needs to relax. I'm going to help. Hand me that screw driver," he said. Neville raised an eyebrow.

"Screw driver, Harry?" he muttered, handing the requested item to his off-the-wall cousin. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"Then don't ask," Harry sang. He pranced over to his bedroom door. "Stay here. I might need you for damage control later." Neville snorted. That was a surety.

Following the hallway to his father's conference room, Harry ran a hand through his hair, straightened his shirts, dusted off his jeans, and prepared to piss his Dad off like nothing else.

Throwing the doors open, and manfully ignoring the shocked and resigned looks of the board (Harry did this at least once a month), Harry strutted into the conference room. He spotted his father right away. James Potter was a tall, brunette man with hair just as unruly as Harry's, eyes the color of burnished copper, and a build like a professional soccer player. His suit was almost two good for him. He seemed like a man that was more laid back, and would feel more at home in a hawaii shirt at a club than heading a board meeting.

Those copper brown eyes narrowed on his son as Harry strolled in and hopped onto the conference table. "Good morning, employees of Potter Records!" Harry said cheerfully. He grinned down at all of them. "Mr. Renly. Dr. Hilliard. Mrs. Phelps. Ms. Parker. Mr. Williams. And last but certainly not least...my good friend, Ms. Skeeter. How are you all?" Harry tried not to scowl at Rita Skeeter, the gold digging executive on his father's board. He considered them better acquited since he'd draped her car in toilet paper and given it a new hippy paint job when he'd discovered her putting the moves on his Dad.

"Have I got a show for you this morning, my lovelies." Harry grinned and threw a look at his Dad. "Pops, this is for you." James Potter supressed his growl, as well as the familiar feeling of amusement he'd fought ever since the Marauders broke up. He had no right to have fun and be happy after what he'd allowed Peter to do.

Harry stood fully and strutted to the center of the table. He pressed a button on a close by wall and rock music melody filled the room. The board of directors grimaced. Harry grinned. He brought he screw driver to his lips and began.

"You are still burning,
that flame that is turning,
my smoldering ash into a bird."

Harry sang, beginning to shake his hips to the beat.

"So stay close my brother,
I couldn't stand the loss,
you are the bridge of action,
I need you to help me cross.
I need you to help me..."

Harry danced across the long black conference table toward his father. He pointed at the disgruntled man and smiled.

"So when you break
my arms I'll take hold of you
I know your heart's a hand that takes hold of me."

Spinning around, Harry began his strut back to the other end of the table.

"My hand that is breaking
is the hand that is making
all the dead things in me grow
a gift of a holy loss
this is burning at the dross."

Closing his eyes and throwing a sway into his dance, Harry stepped toward and away from the executives periodically, annoying them but keeping their attention on him.

"So when you break
my arms I'll take hold of you
I know your heart's a hand that takes hold of me."

Harry danced toward his father again, but this time James didn't watch him. Reaching out a muscled arm, he grabbed his son around the waist and pulled him off the table. Harry was a fairly small boy, so he fit under his father's arm easily and was light enough to keep there. Harry squawked in surprise, then blushed when he realised that he was finally caught.

"Executives," James began, looking around at his employees. He waved his son's body at them. "My son, Harry Potter has annoyed and irritated you this morning. I think it fitting that you decide his punishment." At this, Harry began squirming in earnest.

"Da!" he whined, struggling to escape. James patted him on his black clad behind, which was open to the board's view.

"No, Harry. They deserve this chance. If it happens to be a harsh punishment, you brought it on yourself," James said calmly. He turned back to his board. "Well?"

"I think he should simply be spanked," said old Ms.Parker. "A little spanking never hurt anyone."

"Well, I think you should cut his allowance," Mr. Williams suggested. "Kids these days are only rude and heathenish because they don't have the values that come with working a hard job."

"I second that notion," said Ms. Skeeter, oily smile plastered on her face. "But I think that will not be enough." The smile widened. "Didn't you say you were planning on moving to Tudor, Michigan (A/N: completely made up.) in a few months to relax before the new year's record boom? Why don't you send young Harry ahead of you, with a small allowance, meaning he would have to get a job?"

Harry froze. "Wha..?" he whispered, attempting to twist around to see his Dad's face. Moving? They were going to leave London and go to some weird American town for a few months? Wait, work? Harry would have to work?

"Yes, that's a wonderful idea. Harry will be seventeen soon, yes? He'll be able to get a fairly good job there," said Mrs. Phelps.

"Send him," grumbled Dr. Hilliard.

"Alright," James said, nodding at his board. Harry exploded in his arms.

"No!" he yelled. "No, no, no! Da, I don't want to!" He struggling to free himself so he could run away.

"Don't worry, Harry. We'll still celebrate your birthday here, so you can see your friends one last time. But the board has spoken. You will go." Pressing a button on his phone, James patched himself through to security. "Emilio, can you please come up here and collect my son?"

Right away, Mr. Potter.

"Thank you, Emilio." Hanging up, James turned back to his board. "While we wait for Emilio, was there anything else." The meeting continued as if it was never interrupted, and left Harry to stew against his father's hip.

If only Harry's mother was here. She'd know what to do. Lily Evans-Potter had been a force to be reckoned with. She never would have let his father get to this state. Hmph. Well, Harry wasn't going to take this lying down. Oh, no. People of Tudor, brace yourselves.

TBC....