The cupboard under the stairs was dark, cramped, and smelled of cleaning supplies. Perfect.
Harry Potter dropped to the floor, hands positioned precisely shoulder-width apart, and began his morning routine. One push-up. Two. Three. He kept his breathing controlled, silent. The Dursleys couldn't know. They could never know.
Fifty. His arms burned, but he pushed through. Pain was temporary. Weakness was forever.
He'd found the manga volumes three years ago, discarded in Dudley's second bedroom among the broken toys and forgotten gifts. His cousin had tried reading them once, complained about "reading backwards," and tossed them aside. Harry had smuggled them into his cupboard one at a time.
Dragon Ball Z. A story about warriors, princes, and the pursuit of absolute strength.
Vegeta, Prince of all Saiyans, had captured something in Harry's mind. The way he refused to bow. The way he turned suffering under Frieza into fuel for his pride. The way he made himself strong through sheer, relentless will.
One hundred.
Harry stood, barely winded now. Four years of training in secret had transformed the scrawny boy the Dursleys wanted him to be into something harder. He wasn't big - malnutrition had seen to that - but he was lean, fast, and driven by something the Dursleys couldn't understand.
He would surpass them all.
"BOY! GET UP! BREAKFAST WON'T COOK ITSELF!"
Harry's jaw tightened. Aunt Petunia's shrill voice grated, but he'd learned to use it. Every insult was gravity training. Every punishment was the hyperbolic time chamber. Every day with them made him stronger.
He emerged from the cupboard, his face a careful mask of indifference.
"About time," Vernon Dursley grunted from behind his newspaper. "Bacon. Eggs. Toast. And don't you dare burn anything."
Harry moved to the kitchen without a word. Let them think him cowed. Let them think him weak.
He knew better.
As he cooked, Dudley waddled into the kitchen, already whining about wanting more presents for his birthday. Harry tuned it out. The weak always wanted more handed to them.
"Lot of letters today," Petunia said, sorting through the mail. "Bills, bills, junk—"
She froze.
Harry glanced over. His aunt's face had gone pale, her thin fingers trembling around a yellowish envelope.
"Vernon," she whispered.
The atmosphere in the kitchen changed instantly. Vernon snatched the letter, and Harry caught a glimpse of emerald green ink, an address written in a way he'd never seen:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
Something electric ran through Harry's veins.
"NO!" Vernon roared, crumpling the letter. "I WON'T HAVE IT! NOT IN THIS HOUSE!"
But Harry had seen enough. That letter was his. Someone knew where he slept. Someone had written to him, not "the boy" or "that wretched child."
His mind raced with possibilities, but his face remained neutral. A Saiyan prince didn't beg for scraps.
He would have what was his. One way or another