18th June, 1996

It was a good night for something bad to happen. The fog wetly clung to them, as the thestrals jerked them up and down, up and down, like a malfunctioning fairground ride. And beneath it all, lurked a sense of wrongness - crackling in the air, and tugging at Harry. He shifted uncomfortably, and Ron noticed. "You all right mate?" he yelled over the wind, and Harry just urged the thestral on in response. Sirius was in danger.

That sense of wrongness practically coated the prophecy, when Harry lifted it from its perch, and then all hell broke loose.

The spells were coming from everywhere and nowhere, Order members and Death Eaters at each others' throats. It was like some warped light show - pretty bluebell beams that slit throats with a spray of blood, and in the middle of it all - Sirius.

"No." screamed Harry, when he saw the spell shooting towards Padfoot, and leapt in front of it wildly, arms flailing. The red ball collided with the prophecy, clutched to Harry's chest, and came out through his back with a deathly chill, something slick coating his insides. And then he was falling, falling through the silvery veil, nestled by the empty loudness and soft whispers. "Harry." said a gentle voice, defined now. "Mum," he tried to say, but could not speak, so Harry reached as though through treacle, for his mum - and collided with something else. Something ancient and old. And then there was nothing.

30th January 1960

Harry woke up - was reborn, he later realised - to bright light that had him blinking wildly, and - for some reason - shrieking like a banshee. There must also have been something in his eyes, because the giant shapes that leaned over him were blurry.

But he could recognise that nasally voice anywhere. "So this is my new brother?" said Petunia - in a familiarly disgusted tone. "But I asked you for a sister." she said petulantly, with a stamp of some buckled shoe, and Harry screamed louder than he ever had before.

His name was Lyle Evans, cooed by a woman far too sweet to have birthed Petunia. And he was trapped, with limbs too weak to move away from his new sister's cruel little pinches, and a head far too heavy to lift.

It was a slow-moving hell, leaving Harry plenty of time to think over his miserable, humiliating existence. He'd never met a sister called Lily, yet months crept by without any new pregnancy, and Harry nurtured an awful suspicion. 'Lyle' was awfully close to 'Lily', wasn't it? And there was just the right age gap between him and the she-devil. Slow tears dribbled down chubby cheeks. 'What had he done?' Harry wondered miserably. What had he done...

30th January 1964

Time only confirmed it. Harry shouldn't exist, he acknowledged, chewing birthday cake to his new parents' delight. He'd stolen Lily Evans' place in the universe, but the world moved on regardless - and somehow, somehow, Harry was still alive. It was troubling: the sort of thing that would delight Hermione, but it just made Harry's head ring. So he focused, selfishly, on the Victoria sponge.

His second childhood, Harry gratefully realised, was going to be far easier than his first. Rose and John Evans were doting parents, and Harry was living the suburban dream. His main problem - aside from a crippling existential crisis - wore polished Mary Jane shoes and tea dresses. It also thought a torturous game of dress-up was the perfect birthday present.

"Stay still." Petunia hissed, tugging Harry's short mop of hair into a ponytail. He knew better than to wince. And then a silk dress was being slipped over skinny limbs, and Petunia plonked him in front of the mirror. "There." she declared in triumph. "Now you look like a proper girl."

Harry didn't really. His knees were too knobbly, and for all Petunia's efforts Harry was still a brother: all sharp edges and a scrappy grin, with a mop of red hair plonked on top. "Thanks." he muttered, with the genuineness of Lucius Malfoy, and his aunt - sister. Beamed.

It was an odd expression to see - softening her face, until Petunia looked remarkably like an actual child, and Harry could almost forget the bony, harsh visage that would take the place of happily-flushed pudge. Almost. But eleven years in a cupboard bred a strong grudge.

Harry was jerked out of his thoughts by a small hand, soft and cold, wrapping around his even smaller one. "Come on." ordered Petunia. "We're going to show you off." 'Showing off' turned out to mean being dragged in front of their parents, Rose oohing and aahing with fond amusement, and John shooting them a look of disapproval over his newspaper, though with a glimmer of laughter in his eye.

Harry posed, awkwardly, for a polaroid photo: Petunia standing next to him, chest puffed out with pride, and Harry looking as though he wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor. Even Bellatrix would've been better than this.

Harry drew the line at being paraded around the neighbourhood - he had some pride. But Petunia was tugging at him with all the strength of a determined bull, and the shoes she'd slipped him into were too big - Harry tripped over his own feet and stumbled backwards over the doorstep, stomach dropping and world slowing as he prepared himself for the hard fall. It never came.

Harry opened his eyes very, very slowly, and met Petunia's wide gaze. He was floating an inch over the floor. The 'bubble' popped at Harry's panic, and he dropped with a slight "oomph" of pain. He slowly got up, and waited for the shouts of 'freak' but they never came. Instead, Petunia's face twisted into a ... grin? "That," she said slowly. "was so. Cool. Do it again!" And then Petunia shoved him happily over. This time, Harry's magic did not appear.

"Sorry." said Petunia weakly at the hospital, sitting at one side of Harry's bed. Harry offered a sort of groan. "But," she said, dropping her voice to a not-so-hushed whisper, "it was worth it." Harry's stitched head did not agree. "Now we know we're magic! And ..." Petunia hesitated. "maybe you're not so bad for a boy."

She was a monster, one side of Harry argued - the side that flinched away from touch, and wanted a family more than anything. But a voice, that sounded suspiciously like Hermione, argued this wasn't Old Petunia. This Petunia wasn't truly awful, not yet. So Harry, against all his better judgment, wished as hard as he could for a peace offering.

A single flower plucked itself from the vase next to his bed, and wobbled slowly through the air to Petunia's hair. "Oh," she breathed in wonder, eyes sparkling, and Harry allowed himself a small grin in return. Because she wasn't so bad for a Petunia.