A Narry Cinderella Story

                                    

                                          
by: pintsandguitars
                          
Summary:
                          
Harry is Cinderella. Niall is Prince Charming. And that is just how the story goes.
                          
°•°•°
                          
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Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a beautiful kingdom. The kingdom flourished and everyone lived a prosperous life, as the King was nothing but noble and the Queen nothing but kind. But this is not the story of a King or a Queen. Nor a story of their beautiful daughter. No, this is the story of a village commoner that lives in this faraway kingdom. It’s the story of Des Styles and his son, Harry. He was an amicable man, Des, always full of smiles and warm brown eyes. But the smiles masked his pain, the brown eyes etched with hurt. He had lost his wife to polio.
                          
The other villagers looked toward him with pity. He had to leave Harry in the care of various other villagers while he tried to keep their family bakery running. The bakery made really good money, as Des was the only baker in town. But it was hard work without his wife at his side. Des often fell asleep in the kitchen while kneading the dough, only to be shaken awake by Harry in late hours of the night.
                          
“Why don’t you take another wife, Des?” his friend George had suggested.
                          
“Don’t be silly!” Des had dismissed, “Who could ever replace Anne?”
                          
But then one day, a fair maiden came about the shop. She had chocolate brown eyes and ruby stained lips.
                          
Her name was Maybelle .
                          
“I heard you make the best bread in town,” she had cooed, fluttering her eyelashes shamelessly. Des had stuttered and blushed and burnt the batch of bread in the oven.
                          
Two months later, they had gotten married. Harry was twelve at the time.
                          
Maybelle had two other sons; Eugine and Neville. Both of them were Harry’s age, but they acted with much less maturity. They would smiled sweetly and bat their eyelashes at Des; but as soon as he looked away, they would pinch Harry’s nose and pull on his hair.
                          
It was a year later when Des passed away. It came about all of a sudden. One day he was jolly, full of pink cheeks and sturdy hands. Then the next, his health was so poor he had to be bed-ridden. Harry had to taken over the bakery in his absence, the child full of knowledge and skills his father had taught him.
                          
That night they buried his father, his step-mother had packed up all his belonging in boxes and stashed them in the attic.
                          
“Harry, it’s your duty to keep the bakery running,” Maybelle had told him. “Your father promised to take care of me and my boys, and since you’re his son, that responsibility has been passed on to you.” Her index finger, clad with purple nail tarnish, was pointed as his nose.
                          
He had nodded stiffly.
                          
She had then thrust the last box of his belongings into his hands. “Also, you’ll be sleeping in the attic from now on. Eugene and Neville are growing up now, so they need their own rooms.”
                          
Behind her, Eugene had a menacing smirk plastered across his face. Neville looked haughtily at Harry, nose pushed high into the air.
                          
Harry’s throat had clenched, but he couldn’t cry any more. All his tears had been shed at the funeral, emptied over his father’s grave.
                          
He had taken his box of belongings and trudged up into the attic. There were spider webs hanging from every surface and it smelt like rotten eggs.
                          
His shoulders sagged.