Chapter 1: The Young Prince

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The evening sky over Privet Drive was a dull, murky gray, the clouds heavy with the threat of rain. Inside Number Four, the oppressive silence clung to the air, broken only by the dull scrape of cutlery against plates and the low murmur of the television in the living room. Vernon Dursley sat at the head of the table, his thick hands clutched tightly around his fork and knife, his piggy eyes flickering toward the boy at the far end of the table.

Harry Potter.

The boy who lived under their roof, yet somehow seemed to rise above them all.

At first glance, Harry seemed nothing more than a scrawny boy—pale skin, messy black hair, and far too thin for his age. But there was something about him now that unnerved Vernon in ways he couldn't explain. The boy had changed over the years. He'd grown taller—unnaturally tall for a boy his age, almost towering over his cousin Dudley by his tenth birthday. But it wasn't just his height that made Vernon uneasy.

It was the eyes. Those sharp, unnervingly green eyes that seemed to pierce through everything they looked at, as if Harry knew far more than he let on. It was like being watched by something dangerous, something that was just waiting for the right moment to strike.

Harry sat quietly at the table, pushing his food around his plate, his face calm and expressionless. He didn't need to speak. He didn't need to argue or fight back. He'd learned long ago that silence was far more powerful than shouting, that subtlety could wound more deeply than any blow. He no longer reacted to their punishments. The bruises on his arms and back throbbed under his shirt, but he wore them like a shield. They couldn't break him.

He wouldn't let them.

Vernon's voice cut through the stillness like a knife. "You're not leaving until you finish every bite on that plate."

Harry's gaze flicked upward, locking onto Vernon's with a coldness that belied his age. The room seemed to still around them.

"I'm not hungry," Harry replied, his voice low, calm, and somehow sharper than Vernon's bark.

Vernon's face flushed red, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the cutlery. Petunia sat frozen, her eyes darting between her husband and Harry, as if waiting for the explosion. Dudley, oblivious as ever, shoveled another mouthful of potatoes into his mouth, his pig-like snorts filling the silence.

But Harry wasn't afraid. He hadn't been afraid of Vernon for a long time.

"You'll eat what's on that plate," Vernon growled, his voice rising with every word, "or—"

"Or what?" Harry interrupted, leaning back slightly in his chair, his green eyes never leaving Vernon's. His voice was cold, steady. "What are you going to do?"

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Vernon opened his mouth to shout, to throw the boy into the cupboard where he had spent so many nights before, but something in his throat caught. For the briefest moment, Vernon hesitated. His eyes locked with Harry's, and he felt it again—that cold, unnerving sensation creeping up his spine.

He wouldn't admit it to himself, but he feared the boy.

Harry had always been different. Strange things happened around him—things Vernon and Petunia couldn't explain, and it terrified them. Once, when Harry was barely seven, Vernon had raised a fist to him, but just before it connected, Vernon had been flung backward by an invisible force, crashing into the wall. He had claimed it was a coincidence, a fluke, but deep down, he knew better. Since that day, something had changed in the way they dealt with him. They were still cruel, still punished him, but there was always a flicker of hesitation, a fear of what might happen if they pushed too far.

And Harry knew it. He had learned to manipulate it.

Without waiting for a response, Harry stood from the table, pushing his chair back with a deliberate screech. Vernon flinched, but Harry didn't so much as glance back at him as he turned and walked out of the kitchen. The air felt heavier with every step Harry took, and for a moment, Vernon just sat there, his fork frozen in mid-air. Petunia's hands twisted the napkin in her lap, her thin lips pressed tightly together, but she said nothing. They had learned, too. Fear had silenced them all.

Harry ascended the stairs, the weight of his footsteps echoing through the narrow hallway. He moved with a calm that was unnerving for a boy his age, but Harry had never been like other boys. From a young age, he had understood things—felt things—other people didn't. His emotions were carefully controlled, a mask he wore to hide the storm that brewed beneath. When he reached the small room they had grudgingly given him after his years in the cupboard, he paused.

That feeling was there again, creeping along the edges of his consciousness.

It was the same feeling he'd had when strange things happened around him. Like the time Dudley had cornered him in the garden, ready to pummel him, only for Harry to instinctively push back, and Dudley had found himself lifted off his feet by a gust of wind. Harry hadn't known what he had done, but he had known it was him.

He wasn't like them. He wasn't like any of them.

Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside, his eyes scanning the small room. The cracked mirror on the wall reflected his face, pale and sharp, his jet-black hair a messy halo around his head. He was tall for his age—unnaturally tall—and growing faster than Dudley, despite the Dursleys' best efforts to starve him into submission. His features had begun to sharpen—his jawline more defined, his cheekbones more regal. He looked… princely, almost. It was as if his body was preparing him for something greater than this miserable existence.

Harry stood in front of the mirror, studying his reflection. His almond-shaped green eyes stared back, piercing, cold. Those eyes were different, too. People—strangers—would stop in the street and look at him, sometimes even remarking on how strange and striking his eyes were. They weren't like the dull brown of Dudley's, or the watery blue of Petunia's. They were vivid, almost unnatural, and in them, Harry saw power. He just didn't understand it yet.

But he would.

The days passed slowly at Privet Drive, the oppressive heat of summer hanging heavy in the air. The Dursleys barely spoke to Harry anymore, choosing instead to ignore him as best they could. But Harry didn't mind. He preferred it that way. It gave him time to think, to observe. He had always been good at watching, at learning from others' mistakes. Even as a child, he had known how to stay quiet, how to read the room and use the smallest details to his advantage.

By the time he was ten, Harry had learned how to make the Dursleys bend to his will, though they didn't even realize it. A carefully placed word here, a calculated silence there, and they would stumble over themselves to avoid his wrath. It wasn't fear of what he might do—it was fear of what they didn't understand. And Harry understood more than they could ever know.

He sat in the garden one afternoon, watching the clouds gather in the sky, a distant rumble of thunder promising a storm. The book he held—one of Dudley's cast-offs—lay open on his lap, but he wasn't reading. His mind was elsewhere, turning over the same thoughts he'd had for years.

What made him different?

The question gnawed at him constantly, the answer always just out of reach. He had always known he wasn't like other boys. He was special. He could feel it in his bones, in the way his skin tingled when something strange happened, in the way people seemed to react to him. But what was it? What was the source of this… power?

Suddenly, the peaceful stillness of the afternoon was shattered by a loud, booming knock at the front door, followed by a voice so deep and rumbling it made the windows rattle.

"I've come for Harry Potter!"

Harry's head snapped up, his heart pounding in his chest. He stood, his legs moving automatically as he slipped inside the house, making his way toward the front hall where the Dursleys were already gathered. The sight that met him as he rounded the corner was nothing short of bizarre.

Standing in the doorway was the largest man Harry had ever seen. He had to stoop to fit through the doorframe, his wild mane of hair and tangled beard giving him the appearance of some kind of giant. His clothes—what looked like an overcoat made of animal hide—swept the floor, and his beetle-black eyes gleamed with excitement as they landed on Harry.

"Ah, there yeh are!" the man bellowed, his grin stretching across his face. "Harry Potter!"

Harry didn't move, his eyes flicking between the man and his terrified relatives. Vernon had turned a sickly shade of gray, his fists clenched at his sides, but even he didn't dare speak. Petunia looked like she might faint, her bony hands clutching the front of her dress, while Dudley cowered behind her, his eyes wide with fear.

The giant's grin widened as he took in Harry's appearance, and he gave a booming laugh. "Well, look at yeh! Smart lad, yeh are. Taller than I expected, but good—good! The name's Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper o' Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. I've come to take yeh to yer school. Yer a wizard, Harry."

The words hung in the air, echoing in the small hallway.

A wizard.

Harry's mind raced, the word sinking in like a hook catching hold. A wizard. That's what he was. That's what made him different. It explained everything—the strange occurrences, the power he felt just beneath the surface of his skin. He wasn't just a freak. He wasn't just special.

He was a wizard.

Harry's face remained impassive, but inside, something clicked into place. He could feel the pieces of the puzzle falling together, forming a picture that was still blurry around the edges but growing sharper by the second.

"I knew it," Harry said quietly, his voice smooth, controlled. His green eyes locked onto Hagrid's, and the giant blinked in surprise.

"Well… well, that's a first," Hagrid stammered, scratching the back of his head. "Most kids are a bit more shocked, yeh know. But I suppose yeh always knew, didn't yeh?"

Harry gave a small, calculated smile. "I've always been different."

The answer seemed to please Hagrid, who beamed down at him with something like pride. "Ah, yeh'll be just fine at Hogwarts. Smart as a whip, I can see that. Bet yeh'll be top o' yer class in no time!"

Harry said nothing, letting Hagrid's words wash over him. He didn't need to say much. Hagrid was already charmed by him, already convinced of Harry's brilliance. It had always been like this—people saw what they wanted to see. And Harry made sure they saw exactly what he wanted them to.

As they left Privet Drive, Hagrid chattering on about Hogwarts and the magical world, Harry's mind was already turning, already calculating. He hadn't even stepped foot into this new world, but he knew one thing for certain.

Whatever awaited him at Hogwarts, he would be ready. And he would rise above them all.

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Hello everyone, this is my first fanfiction, and i hope you'll enjoy it, it's my first time attempting something like this so please be patient, updates will be every 2 days, and i plan for this story to be a long one so if anyone ends up liking this stay tuned, God bless you all!