The Dark Prince

A Proposition

Dursley Residence [1987]

Harry woke up in darkness.

Cautiously, he ran his hands over his surroundings, relying completely on his other senses to give him some sense of clarity. From what he gathered, he was in an extremely cramped room, a far cry from his nearly bare, but spacious bedroom at Potter Manor.

The record of his memories from last night played in his mind over and over again on endless repeat. The blackness of the room concealed the dark, disturbed look in his eyes. It had actually happened. His parents had left him.

Slowly he sank down to the floor, wrapping his arms around his folded legs. In the nearly tangible silence, he was acutely aware of his shaky breaths. He was practically able to hear his own pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of the steady rhythm only seemed to increase the intensity of the slow throbbing in his head. A gentle shiver went down his spine, and Harry raised his hands to massage his temples. He could hear it so clearly. His fingers tugged on the ends of his hair as it began to pulsate so loudly in his mind, until he was nearly suffocating by the pressure.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the stale air and the more-than-normal amount of dust in the room. His eyes watered and he gasped, choking and coughing. Not only did his parents have to leave him, but they also decided that he should acquire lung cancer as well? Harry chuckled quietly in the dark. Now, that was just rude.

Absentmindedly, he wondered if he would die in this shoebox.

Dursley Residence [December 1987]

Cupboard. Not a shoebox, he later found out.

Harry wasn't sure how long he had spent in there, for time seemed to barely trickle by while he was ensconced in the darkness for so long. He had tried to count the seconds, but that slowly drove him to the brink of insanity.

Eventually, someone had come to collect him. Or rather, roughly force him out of the confined cupboard. She called herself, 'Auntie Petunia', and in a shrill, demanding tone of voice, she had insisted that Harry sweep the floor if he wanted even a morsel of food that day.

Auntie Petunia's eyes had lingered on the child sized, wizard robes that he had worn that day. They were his only possession. The only reminder of his family, and what was now his past.

In a fit of smug vengeance, Auntie Petunia had tossed the already rumpled robes into the fireplace. Her lips were pressed into a thin line while she handed him some large cast-off muggle clothes that had once belonged to his cousin. The whole thing was disgustingly symbolic.

He had barely managed to rescue the shrunken down book he had shoved into his robes earlier.

And now, as he stood over the sink on a small stool, washing the dirty plates leftover from dinner that evening, Harry mulled over what his life had become in just a couple months.

With each passing day, the mountain of chores he was to complete became larger and larger. They were mind numbingly boring tasks, simply meant to tire him and overwork his malnourished body. It only seemed to cause his bitter resentment for the Dursleys to grow infinitely.

Auntie Petunia, who appeared more horse than woman, considered herself above using rough discipline and physical violence to turn Harry into nothing short of a slave. He was her dear nephew, after all.

Unfortunately, her husband, Vernon Dursley, did not seem to have any qualms about such a thing. In fact, the large man seemed to take great pleasure in seeing the angry, bluish-black bruises that now decorated Harry's pale skin.