Disclaimer: All credit goes to JKR - I'm just playing in her very exquisitely made sandbox.

Notes: Muggle AU, Gen

Fly, Little Sparrow

The first rays of the sun crept into the room, and Harry rubbed his eyes as he squirmed out of his bed. A small hand holding his blanket around him, he snuck out of his room, giggling conspiratorially. Today he was going to wake up his aunt and uncle, not the other way round, because he was a big boy now!

He was reaching up on his toes to open his their bedroom door when he heard his uncle's voice grumbling in irritation.

"—your sister. But of course when she and her 'artist' husband Potter," he spit, "died in that plane crash, your father had to leave the entire Evans inheritance to your blasted nephew. I wish there was some way around this, because I can't stand that snivelling brat anymore!"

"Shh, Vernon, you'll wake him. If I had my way, you know the boy would have been deposited at an orphanage on the other side of the country at the first instance possible. But we have to endure this—without the allowance, we wouldn't be able to afford half the things we do now. And then where would we be? And our little Dudders? The boy will just have to be put up with for now."

Potter … They were talking about his father! So that meant that the 'brat' they were heatedly discussing was … him.

Clutching his blanket to his chest like a lifeline, Harry mechanically made his way back to his room.

The rest of the day was passed in shell-shocked silence. A haze had settled around his head, as though he was seeing everything through a fog. Through the loud cries of "Happy birthday, Harry!", the rambunctious balloon-and-present-filled party, and his favourite chocolate cake, he could barely muster a half-hearted smile.

Their words rang in his ears continuously. … can't stand that snivelling brat anymore … deposited at an orphanage on the other side of the country … They didn't want him; they never had.

With every minute and subsequent realisation, his heart disintegrated into smaller and smaller fragments, trampled on and crushed into obscurity.

He became a big boy that day.

Following that fateful day, for reasons they were blissfully unaware of, the Dursleys were left with a curiously pliant and docile nephew. A smile at the appropriate moment, a flawlessly articulated speech at another. He was groomed into a showpiece for his aunt and uncle. A puppet that could be manoeuvred through important functions, a doll that could be dressed and redressed for every occasion, a nameless painting on an overcrowded wall that everyone admired but none understood.

By the time he was eight, not a soul was able to decipher the thoughts that ran behind the respectful stance and placid eyes.

His aunt and uncle were in their element, thriving under the public eye and flitting through high society parties every other week. His own friendships were equally pretentious, as they were mere ornaments meant to adorn, with no emotional attachment. He never regained his closeness with Dudley, who pursued his own interests—namely boxing and other physical sports—and formed his own group of friends among the 'popular' kids.

Harry's education was never compromised; the most prestigious tutors were called upon, and he attended schools of the highest quality and reputation amongst peers of his station.

At ten years old, he was a renowned child prodigy, partaking in science and math competitions with students three years his senior. His teachers nodded sagely to each other, as though they were the reason behind his success. "Mark my words, that boy will go places."

Through it all, a voice whispered to him, speaking of exciting adventures and eye-opening explorations and loving friendships that fluttered just out of his reach. That voice remained locked inside him, however, only given free reign in the quietest, darkest moments of the night, under the watchful light of the stars where he imagined he could sprout wings and soar into the sky.

At all other times, an unbreakable cage surrounded his heart, guarding it fiercely. Nothing and no one would ever get close to breaking it again; he had learned his lesson well the first time.

Five years later, he had become one of the youngest secondary school graduates of the country, presented with all the noteworthy awards and acclaimed scholarships. All the top universities lost no time in vying for the patronage of the famous Evans' money.

Reporters were queued up for weeks to document the awe-inspiring progress of the Evans-Dursley family, culminating with his celebrated graduation. His uncle slung a strong arm over his shoulder and grinned easily at the cameras. His mother flanked his other side, arm wrapped daintily around his waist. The perfect family, fulfilling every idealistic and utopian fantasy across the nation.

The family he hadn't exchanged more than greetings and polite nothings with in years.

His fingers itched to wrench away from their confining, suffocating presence and damn the consequences. Instead, he balled them up into tightly clenched fists, smile stretching that much wider.

The chauffeur arranged the luggage neatly inside Harry's room by the door and bowed before taking his leave. "Good luck for the coming year, Mr. Evans."

Harry nodded his acknowledgement and dismissal, heard the door click shut, and, uncaring of his crisply pressed white shirt and black slacks, threw himself flat onto one of the two identical white beds.

And groaned.

No one had told him that he would have to share a room. Hogwarts University, the most reputed in all of Great Britain, couldn't give the Evans scion a room to himself?

Still, he couldn't deny the excitement that coursed through his veins at the thought of a completely Dursley-free year. No ridiculous parties to attend or courteous small-talk to engage in. An elated smile broke across his face and his eyes fell shut in contentment.

"Hey, mate! You're my roommate this year, I suppose?"

Harry's eyes shot open in shock. He hadn't heard any footsteps or even the sound of the door being opened. No one had caught him off guard like that in years, and it put him off balance.

"Wh-where did you come from?"

He took in the muscular build and roguish grin, which were at odds with the flaming red hair and strangely youthful aura that he gave off. Probably the dancing blue eyes, he noted absently.

The man—he had to be at least five years older than himself—rolled his eyes. Harry barely refrained an affronted sneer at the gesture. "Through the door," he said, jerking his thumb behind him. "I'm Charlie Weasley, thanks for asking," he added drily.

The muscles of Harry's face clicked back into its familiar stiffness. "Pleased to meet you, Charlie Weasley. My name is Harry Evans."

A/N: What a depressing start … Represents my current despair with writing Don't Judge a Master by Its Death, the latest chapter of which is currently sitting at about a tenth complete. I'm also very confused about how this got so long—it wasn't meant to go over a few hundred words at the most …

Please leave prompts, and I'll try to use them! And let me know what you think of this drabble :)