Harry Potter: A Brave Beginning
The Justice Academy of America
Author's Note: I'm starting this story to continue what I hope to be a series of stories that retells the story of the boy-who-lived in several different ways. This is the second, the first being my story about Luna, A Prophecy Undone. I hope that you like this version and, no, before you say anything, I am not trying for strict canon.
Disclaimer: I do not claim any ownership of either the characters or plot from Harry Potter nor any from the DC Universe.
Fallen Heroes
The world was one of heroes and epic battles—of men who were more than men, women of great power, and unspeakable acts of evil. For those who were ordinary the acts of these gods were little more than stories told over breakfasts and dinner tables, or reports that came to them through the evening news. The few who were witness to the battles—people who made their homes in the big cities where they took place—could never put into words what exactly they saw.
Many held the heroes as Gods—protectors to those who could not protect themselves. Still others saw them as no heroes at all, but charlatans whose own existence had brought the sudden onslaught of monsters and villains into the world.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of 1207 Hickory Street, fell firmly in the camp of the latter. Mr. Dursley was the chief of police in the small town of Hunting, Texas, which boasted a force of over a dozen officers. He was a ruddy, rectangular man, of the kind who was of an athletic build when he still worked the streets but had significantly grown since he was confined for most of his part behind a desk. Mrs. Dursley was a very thin, bottle blonde woman who had worked in a tall office building before having her son Dudley. Her days were mostly spent caring for the boy at home and, occasionally, going door to door in her neighborhood selling tickets for the policemen's raffle.
The Dursleys didn't hold with the superheroes. The real heroes, they liked to point out, were men and women who risked their lives on a daily basis taking care of the people in their communities. They wanted nothing to do with people who ran around making a mess of things in brightly colored underwear, and it was for precisely that reason that Mrs. Dursley hadn't spoken to the Potters for a great many years.
The one part of the lifestyle that Petunia Dursley agreed with at all, and only tentatively at that, was the fact that their kind found it necessary to build secret lives for themselves. Most people didn't even realize that superheroes were walking among them—and what did they think they did, bunk up together in a floating spaceship above the earth or something? It was only because her sister…her own sister…was a superhero that Mrs. Dursley knew anything about the secret lives of that lot.
Mrs. Potter and her husband were wealthy entrepreneurs. It made Petunia sick every time she had to admit to somebody that her sister was the driving force behind Potter Chemicals, Inc., and was likely a billionaire at this point (the company was just about to hit that mark last she heard of). If she were only rich, then perhaps Mrs. Dursley could have dealt with the problem. But it was what she did at night that made her stomach turn.
It had been over ten years since White Seraph first appeared in the rougher neighborhoods of downtown Dallas. Petunia hadn't even realized it was her sister at first, not until news footage of the woman getting shot on TV happened to coincide with her sister coming over for dinner with her arm in a sling. Then two years later, when she married Potter, it all got worse. White Seraph (now with an arsenal of gadgets that Petunia later figured were bought with the profits from the business they started together) was on the news almost nightly, with a man the news took to calling the Stag, for his reported ability to transform into that animal.
In that time, the pair had grown to become the most popular superhero couple in Texas.
It was a gray morning that saw Mrs. Dursley staring out her kitchen window, somewhat distracted. Dudley was planted in front of the television as he ate his McDonald's breakfast, watching dazedly as a tall, shaggy puppet taught him how to count to 10. Mr. Dursley tousled the boys hair as he came into the kitchen. "Little booger," he said, shaking his head. "He'll be a fine cop one day…Petunia?" Noticing his wife was distracted, he said her name again, louder.
"Oh, sorry dear, I still haven't woken up yet," she said, forcing a smile.
"Hmm." He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "Well, I've got to head out. Got a call from Hawkins, says John Franklin's boy is in for vandalizing the high school."
"Really?" said Mrs. Dursley. "I knew he'd turn out to be a hellraiser. John was too, back in the day."
"See you tonight," he said, kissing her again before heading out.
Mrs. Dursley sighed. A strange feeling had come over her. She didn't take stock in hunches, or instinct, but somehow she felt that something big was hanging in the air. She picked Dudley up from his high chair and flipped the channel to the local news before taking him to his playpen in the living room. She was just outside the kitchen when she heard snippets of whatever it was the reporter on the television was saying.
Doubling back, she froze in the kitchen and read the headlines.
Attack on the Potter Estates: Whereabouts of White Seraph and Stag Unknown
"Late last night," the solemn faced reporter said, standing outside the broken shell of what Mrs. Dursley recognized to be her sister's mansion, "the criminal known only as Voldemort laid siege on the home of local billionaires James and Lily Potter. It is not known at this time whether any of his known followers aided in the attack. Soon after the attack was over a rescue team was called in to search through the remains of the estate. The bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Potter were recovered along with the body of Voldemort. Though it is probable that the Potters were victims of the so-called 'killing curse' that Voldemort used, famously, in the massacres of several families over the past several years, authorities are as yet uncertain of the cause of the dark lord's demise. Authorities wish to find and speak to White Seraph and Stag, the most noted opponents of Voldemort. Although the actions of vigilantes have largely been overlooked by the general population, local police have said that illegal vigilante activity resulting in death will not be tolerated. I have with me…"
Mrs. Dursley turned off the television and stood for several minutes in silence, heart sinking into the pit of her stomach. Her sister and her good-for-nothing husband, dead? Was it possible?
The expected phone-call from her husband came not much later—over a hushed conversation they agreed it was for the best not to reveal her sister's secret identity. What use was there in connecting themselves to such infamous personalities after they had already died? It didn't matter if the person who had really killed them was still running around out there—Mrs. Dursley reminded her husband, with conviction, that the superheroes wouldn't think of letting whoever killed them off.
And what about the Potter's young son, Harry? He hadn't been found in the rubble.
Mrs. Dursley sighed. It wasn't their problem, she promised him, they'd never have to worry about the boy.
What Mrs. Dursley did not know, could not possibly have known, was that far away—much farther than she could imagine—a meeting of heroes was being held.
The man of steel paced across the length of the hall, much more agitated than anybody was used to seeing him. The others were silent, watching him and thinking. It was a dark day, much darker than any of them had seen in a very long while. Finally Kal-El paused, turning to look at the others.
"I see no other option," he said. "The boy must be returned to Lily's sister."
"Them?" said a tall woman with jet-black hair. "I heard James and Lily speak of them. I wouldn't turn over a dog…"
"Regardless of what, or who, they are, they are the only living relatives that the boy has now," said Kal-El. "Diana, don't fight me on this…"
The woman snorted, but said nothing else. A man in black, his face shrouded, stood up next. "Do you intend to shelter the boy, Diana?" he said. "I am forced to say I am in agreement with Kal on this. Amongst those who know he will be held above all others—famous before he can walk and talk. Even the Superman had a chance for a normal youth…"
"His parents were killed—he will never have a normal childhood. You would know something of that, Bruce."
"And perhaps he will not recover from that," he said. "But a life with the Dursleys—it is not ideal, but it is the only middle ground. He will know of his parents and their deaths, but only when he is old enough will he know of their secret identities."
"And of his power?" said Diana. "Is it not true that the death of Voldemort was his doing?"
The others were silent for a long moment. "Yes, I believe that," said Kal-El decisively. "With time he will need us. Until then, we will watch."
"And wait," said Bruce with moderate disdain.
Silence fell over the band for a moment. Finally Diana spoke. "He will go to the Dursleys, then. Where is the boy, Kal?"
"Zatanna has him. His father was a magic user, after all, and they were close. I will contact her. She will take him to his family."
On Hickory Street, a woman was standing on the corner of the street, quite unnoticed by the people who lived there. She was dark of hair and slight of frame, though there was something compelling about her—especially the look in her eyes.
She was standing there still when she saw a streak of red and blue in the sky. After a moment Superman landed beside her. "We have decided."
"I thought so," she said with a sigh. "Then it's true that Lily and James are dead. I knew they were—I felt it, somehow—but it's disheartening to think of this world without them."
Kal-el nodded, putting his head on Zatanna's shoulder. She looked stricken for a moment, managing after several minutes to pull herself together.
"Well, I suppose there's no use in standing here like this. We ought to take him to his new family." She put out her hands, closing her eyes—the ritual wasn't necessary, as those who knew her were aware, but it aided in her magic, especially at times like these when she was emotionally distraught, try as she might to hide it.
"Yob eht gnirb," she said. A moment passed and suddenly the child was in her arms, still as fast asleep as if nothing had transpired at all. Zatanna gently pushed the hair back from his forehead. "He will have this scar forever, Kal. I attempted to erase it with my magic, but…"
"It is probably best." Kal-el took the baby from her arms, nestling him against his steel chest. The baby cooed in his sleep without waking. "The scar will be a mark of his past—though it will give him pain, he will not forget the people who once loved him." He looked to the home that they stood in front of. "With any luck he will find a new home, a new family."
Zatanna shook her head. "It is not my habit to disagree, but I must remind you that not all humans are the Kents."
Kal-el shook his head. "Regardless," he said. He walked up to the front door.
"Perhaps it would be best to let them find him on their own," said Zatanna gently. He looked back at her and, after a moment, nodded. Sitting the infant down by the front door, he took a step back.
Zatanna knelt in front of the child, putting her hands on him. "Peels—gninrom litnu efas eb." A faint glow surrounded the boy. Then, with a sigh, Zatanna stood.
"We should go," she said. "The villains will be in an uproar to take Voldemort's place. I heard from Batman this morning that there were rumblings in Arkham, and that was when this whole mess was just a rumor."
Kal-el nodded. They left him there—him to sky and Zatanna into nothing.
And the boy laid on the stoop, charmed into sleep and completely unaware of the drastic turn that his life had taken. He did not know that he would awaken in the morning to the harsh scream of his aunt as she found him, or that the next week of his life would be spent alone, in the smallest room of the Dursley's house, barely spoken to or held. He did not know that he was a hero, however young that he may be, and while the world of man raised their glasses to White Seraph and Stag the heroes themselves rose their glasses to Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived.