Author's Note: Hey! Here's the start of Harry's miserable childhood, where he exhibits an amazingly indomitable will. Enjoy!

"Damien, sweetheart, please drink your milk. You'll need the calcium, darling. You need to be Mummy's champion, don't you?" Lily Potter cooed at her five-year-old son from across the long table. She, James and Damien were having breakfast. It was a beautiful home, Potter Mansion. With more rooms than she could count, it was gigantic. She had her doubts about the huge home, but James reassured her that the large space wouldn't make Damien feel lonely at all. He had, after all grown up here. Damien was eating with bits of food flying everywhere, and he was happily gurgling at all the attention he was getting.

"Come on Lils. Lay off the little tyke. Let him have a childhood. Being the boy-who-lived of the wizarding world is difficult enough." James sighed. "Sorry. But don't you want to be a Quidditch star?" he asked his son. Damien sprayed some oatmeal on him in response, and laughed. He then jumped off his high chair, causing Lily's scowl that was directed at James to turn into a gasp.

"Dad!" the son exclaimed loudly. "Let's go fly. I'm bored."

Lily asked, "Ahem. Aren't you forgetting something, dear?" she said, trying to act stern, but failing miserably.

"No."

"Your milk dear, your milk."

"No. I'm not drinking that disgusting stuff, Mommy. I'm going out to fly." And with that thunderous statement, the savior of the wizarding world flounced out of the room, only to collide with eight-year-old Harry Potter, the often forgotten member of this picture-perfect family. Harry was carrying tons of books from the Potter Library, and was struggling a great deal. Damien fell down and started to cry.

"Mum! He pushed me!"

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. Lily (he really didn't feel like calling her Mum. She hadn't exactly done anything really motherly, you see.) rushed and gently picked her precious son from the floor, all the while glancing exasperatedly at Harry. James had gotten out of his seat as well, and was staring at his little son in concern.

"We collided. If Damien had taken the time to look where he was going, he wouldn't be on the ground. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to start on these books." Harry said. Then he bent over and started picking up all the heavy tomes and books that were scattered on the floor.

"Don't take that tone with me, young man. It was all your fault, and-" James broke off as Harry pushed through the entrance to the kitchen. He then promptly proceeded towards the formal living room, as if the collision had never occurred. James and Lily stared at the vanishing figure, while Damien brushed himself off. Damien started glaring at Harry as he ascended the stairs that led to his room, which no other member of the family had been in since Dumbledore proclaimed Damien the boy-who-lived, and tugged at his father.

"What, champ?"

"I want to go flying. NOW."

"Can I finish my breakfast first, little man?"

"No."

James sighed. His son was really a bit stubborn at times. But he was the little champion. He deserved to be a little bit stubborn. After all, he got it from me, along with his awesome flying skills.

"Alright then!" James picked Damien. "Let's GO!" He grinned like Cheshire cat, and summoned two Comet 260's. The latest brooms in the business for his only son. Soon they were flying in the Quidditch Pitch that they owned while Lily washed the dishes.

Harry's room was small, not terribly, but small when compared to the rest of the bedrooms at Potter Mansion. Nevertherless, it was by no means bare, holding tons of imagination and creativity. The walls were painted green and blue by Harry himself, using the leftover paint in the basement that was used to paint his brother's room and magic. The ceiling lit up at night with constellations, using some shiny, glow-in-the-dark sequins Harry had made and a permanent sticking charm. The bed was old, but sturdy. He had a shelf were there were books from the Potter Library, neatly organized and stacked. Little objects, curious ones, that he had managed to salvage from the gifts Damien didn't want were also present. Like a glowing globe of Godric's Hollow, or a whittled bird. They weren't expensive but very pretty, after a few tune-ups and upgrades.

Harry loved them. They would be some of the only amusements for another boy his age. He had no games and his clothes were things he enlargened using wandless magic from Damien's castoffs. Harry never got anything new, but he was pretty happy. He knew that many people were worse off. He was never noticed by his parents, or Remus, or Sirius, or the Order of the Phoenix. They all only cared about the boy-who-lived-to-be-a-royal-pain-in-the-neck. Harry wasn't too partial to swearing. But the point was, whenever the topic came up in his mind, he just shrugged when he thought about it, and tried to control his anger. There wasn't really anything he could do. There also wasn't really any reason that he particularly cared. No. There wasn't any reason he cared.

"Master Harry? Have you eaten anything for breakfast?" A little house-elf was standing to the side, just outside his door. Harry shook his head.

"No, Andy. I'm not particularly hungry anyway. You can go. Thanks." He said with a smile. The house-elf nodded.

"All right. Call if you need anything, Master."

"Cool." Harry turned his attention to the heavy book he was reading. "How to guard your mind: Occlumency and Legilemency" by Roger Abbott. He was nearly finished. He had been mulling over this book for weeks, and now he felt he had mastered the difficult art of Occlumency. The trouble was he had no one to practice with. Andy had outright refused to attack Harry's mind, saying it wasn't in his job description. Harry told him house-elves didn't have a job-description. Slaving away was in their DNA. Andy just smiled in response and scampered away. Cheeky elf.

Harry sighed. He then poked his head out of his room's door to glance at the time shown in the grandfather clock in the hall that was set before the grand staircase. 3:05. Nearly time for his job at Diagon Alley. Harry summoned a wardrobe an old, blue, skiing jacket from his wooden cupboard, and stared at himself in the old, cracked, mirror hanging on the wall. Harry couldn't fix the mirror for some strange reason. He reasoned it to the old superstition of the "broken mirror= seven years of bad luck" , his bad luck had started ever since that brat was conceived, and the prophecy was made by that Divination teacher loon. Sybill Trelawney. It didn't add up to seven years, but five were close enough. He could pick loads of strange things by eavesdropping in Order meetings that occurred every now and then at his home.

Harry cocked his head and studied the mirror in front of him. Thankfully it didn't talk. There was a talking mirror outside the family kitchen, that noticed him whenever he sneaked out of the house to go to Diagon Alley. He didn't need another "Tuck in your shirt, scruffy!" when he was wearing a tee. He had tried to banish it a countless number of times, but the other Potters adored it, as the mirror adored Damien Potter, and complimented him whenever he walked into the kitchen. Even inanimate objects were taken with the boy-who-lived-to-make-Harry's-life-miserable.

If one were to compare the older and younger brother, only their hair would be common between them. Harry and Damien both had abnormally messy hair, courtesy of their father, James, that would resist any attempt made to tame it. Harry had a sharp nose, and angular face with set jaw, and his eyes were the most lovely shade of fierce green, greener than even Lily's. He was thin, yet strong and wiry, and exceptionally tall. Damien, by contrast, was stocky and short, had a square face, blunt features complete with a button nose, and warm, hazel eyes. Lily often said they were his best features. She, of course, also often said, that Damien reminded her of the Greek god Adonis, but that last part, my friend, is just bias. Damien was by no means a Greek god, and that was clear even in the early years of his unfortunate life. Harry was the one who inherited the great looks from his parents, and yet was never noticed in this, ahem, blessed household.

Harry scurried out of Potter Mansion using the back door of the family kitchen, narrowly avoiding Damien's abominable charmed snowman that Lily had created for him, which had been running haywire through Potter Mansion for the last few months. Neither the house elves nor Lily, James, or Harry could get rid of it, as it was incredibly elusive, and hit people with broomsticks when it did deign to make an appearance. Harry ran out of the house, soaking in the marvelous July sunlight that poured out of the sky, and hurried towards the gates of his house. He quickly charmed them open, and took a few seconds to look at his wandless and non-verbal handiwork for a moment with immense pride. He then ran to the bus-stop across the road, and concentrated on summoning the Knight-Bus.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. We're there to help! Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve—"

"Yeah, yeah," Harry interjected. "Could you get me to Diagon Alley, Stan?"

"Why, it's little Harry. Oy Ernie! Look, it's little Harry. Hey mate. How're ya?"

"Fantastic, Stan, just peachy. Now do you mind getting on with it? Ollivander's going to give me my pay-check today!"

"O'course. Diagon Alley, is it?"

"Stan, don't feign ignorance. You take me there everyday."

"And I marvel at 'ow you manage to summon the bus! Anyway, where's your fare?"

"Fare? What fare? Kids travel free. Either you have short-term memory loss, or my name means 'The Great Honker'!"

"Oh," Stan seemed perplexed for a minute, which further strengthened Harry's belief that Stan had 24-hour memory loss. "O'course. Get in, get in."

"Thanks." Harry stuck out his wand hand, which he was pretty sure was his left, even though he was ambidextrous. Harry climbed onto the bus and sat on the nearest bed to the driver. He then grabbed a pole, and looked around the bus. Sure enough he was the only passenger. Everyone else loved a good snooze in the hot afternoons on July.

A few minutes later, Harry was walking the familiar cobble stoned roads of Diagon Alley, and waved to every shopkeeper he saw. Many waved back, as he had rotated his work station every month since he was five and he first started working here. Madam Malkin beamed at him as he passed, and Florean Fortescue told him to come to his shop to have an ice-cream after his shift at Ollivander's was over, that too free of cost. Boy, he loved that guy.

The afternoon lazily passed as he finished organizing Mr. Ollivander's wand library. The wizened, old shopkeeper gave him his due, 20 galleons, for his good work, and encouraged him to keep it up. Harry walked out of the shop after politely thanking the old man, carefully avoiding his eyes, and headed towards Mr. Fortescue's ice-cream shop. The month was almost over, and he was going to be working at Mr. Fortescue's next. It was going to be sweet. Literally.

So, that was a glimpse at Harry's life since he was five, and he is going to be eleven in the next chapter. Should I mention that Merlin was also gonna make a presence?