Everything belongs to J. K. Rowling - all characters mentioned, everything. Nothing belongs to me. I am merely playing around with her creations!

Hello everyone - this is going to be a novel, updated every week or so.

Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Harry Potter AU, not canon. A rewrite of Harry Potter's first year at school, and the friends and enemies he encounters along the way.

Harry Potter and the Man Who Lived

Chapter One

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of No. 4 Privet Drive, sat in silence at their pristine kitchen table. Petunia Dursley was as thin as a rake, with curly blonde hair and a particularly long neck. She was currently sitting stiff and upright in her chair, clutching her infant son Dudley to her chest, as if fearing he was about to be snatched away at any moment.

Vernon Dursley was a large, portly man, with a fondness for shouting and an intolerance for nonsense. He was sat with his arms crossed, frowning, his bushy moustache twitching every so often on his round (and rather red) face.

Both of the Dursleys were staring at a small bundle in front of them. To a passer-by strolling past their kitchen window, this bundle would appear to be nothing more than a rumpled lump of blankets.

But the Dursleys were able to see what a passer-by could not. Within the bundle lay a baby boy, fast asleep and clutching a letter in his tiny hand. Though young, Harry James Potter already had a mess of jet black hair atop his head, and (to the Dursleys' horror) a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead.

Petunia Dursley had had the shock of her life when she had found Harry that morning, placed unceremoniously upon their doorstep. Milk from the shattered bottles flowing slowly down their garden path, she had picked the boy up, quite reluctantly, and stared at him. Vernon, having heard the crash of the milk bottles, had rushed to the front door and pulled his gently wife back into the house. Petunia had placed a crying Harry onto the kitchen table, picked up their own baby son from his high chair, and they had sat down to look at their nephew.

Harry had cried for a couple of minutes, settled back down, and was now fast asleep once more. Several minutes later, no one had moved. The only noise that could be heard now was the wooden kitchen clock, ticking softly behind the Dursleys on the wall.

A car door slammed outside. Both the Dursleys jumped, as if shocked out of a trance, and looked at each other, blinking.

After a few moments, Vernon cleared his throat and said, gruffly, "is that … er … I mean to say, did he always have that thing on his forehead? The … the mark?"

"No." whispered Petunia.

They both turned their heads back to Harry. The scar was bright red, but not bleeding. The skin around the wound was angry, and raised.

Petunia shivered and clutched Dudley even more firmly to her chest. He started to cry.

"Oh! Oh, Dudders …", said Petunia, as if she hadn't realised he was in her arms. Cooing to him gently, she got up off of her chair and left the kitchen. Vernon heard her walk upstairs and into Dudley's room, and when she returned to the kitchen a couple of minutes later, their son was not with her.

She turned on the baby monitor that was sat next to the sink, and brought it to the kitchen table. She looked pale and frightened as she sat back down. They both stared at the bundle again.

"What do you think this all means?" Petunia asked.

Vernon didn't answer. He shuffled nervously in his seat. He had never got along with Petunia's sister - indeed, neither had Petunia, so he hadn't felt particularly bad about it - and he'd only met his nephew a couple of times. And yet, here he was, lying asleep on their kitchen table.

"I … I don't think Lily has a telephone number. Nor does … that boy. We can't … can't contact them." Her voice was extremely quiet.

"No. Well. I wouldn't expect … their kind, you know," said Vernon.

There was silence again. Then –

"Do you think we should open it?" Petunia asked suddenly, nodding towards the letter. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white.

Vernon didn't answer, but bent forward and picked up the letter. Harry's hand, which had been enclosed around a corner of the letter, disappeared into the folds of his blanket as he turned in his sleep.

They bent their heads together and examined the letter. It was addressed to both of them, in long, curved letters written in emerald green ink:

Mr Mrs Dursley

The Kitchen

No. 4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

They turned the letter over. A wax seal secured the letter, which Vernon Dursley broke with a shaking hand. He unfolded the letter, and they began to read.

Dear Mr Mrs Dursley,

My name is Albus Dumbledore.

I regret that this is the means by which I must introduce myself to you, Mr Dursley (Mrs Dursley, you will remember me, I'm sure), and I am in no doubt that the following will come as a great shock (not to mention, a great sadness) to you, but I must inform you that Lily and James Potter have, most unfortunately, perished.

My sincerest condolences are sent to you at this most unpleasant time, but I am afraid that (as you may have put together) this regrettable situation leaves the Potters' infant son Harry an orphan, and without home or guardian.

Therefore, it is to you that I entrust his care. I cannot express how important it is that he remains with you until he is ready to come to school. He is, like his parents, a wizard, and will have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when the time comes. Until this time comes, however, you must protect him. Lily and James' death was no accident. Both your family and Harry shall be guarded from the horrors that befell the Potters, but only so long as he may call any home in which you reside his home also. This is of paramount importance.

I trust that you, as his relatives, shall provide a happy home for your nephew, and that he shall flourish under your care. I shall be in contact again in the future, when Harry is ready to begin his wizarding studies.

Many condolences for your loss, and the very best of luck to you.

Yours sincerely,

Professor Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

PS. Unless I am sorely mistaken, Harry shall not be attending alone.

The Dursleys finished reading the letter at the same time, and looked at each other. Petunia had tears in her eyes. Vernon's face was, for once, as white as a sheet.

"Petunia … I … I'm sorry, dear," Vernon grumbled. He was, once more, not sure what to say. "Your sister … awful business."

"Yes." She said, turning back to the letter.

He paused for a moment, waiting for her to look back up at him. She didn't, however, so he continued.

"We can't take the boy. Surely, you see that, dear? It's not right for Dudders. I know your parents aren't around, but don't you have another relative? An aunt, or … ? I mean, even an orphanage – "

"No."

The word was whispered, but Petunia might as well have shouted it in Vernon's face. He looked at her, stunned. She raised her eyes to him, which were no longer shining with tears, but stony, and cold.

She had made up her mind.

For far too long, Petunia thought, she been filled with feelings of jealousy towards her sister. Lily had always been centre stage, taking everything Petunia had ever wanted – their parents' affection, her looks, her brains – she had even been pregnant at a younger age than Petunia. Indeed, Lily had even had things Petunia didn't know she wanted until Lily had them. Petunia remembered the day her sister received her Hogwarts letter – Lily had run, screaming with excitement down the hallway towards the kitchen in her pyjamas. She had been unable to remain still whilst their parents read the letter. Mr Evans had dropped his toast on his suit trousers in shock. It had remained there for several minutes.

Initially, like her parents, Petunia had felt nothing but wonder – magic existed, real, true magic – but after a couple of hours, the jealousy had set in. Why hadn't it been her – the elder sister – that had been chosen? Why was she the one that had to stay at home, forever unimpressive with her hard work and good marks because Lily could fly on a broomstick and turn mice into teacups?

And now, she thought, she's dead.

She was dead, just like their parents, and yet she had taken centre stage once again. Petunia would not be able to raise her son in peace. She would have to raise her sister's son as well, in her own home. Indeed, she would have to raise him or put her own family, it seemed, in mortal peril.

Typical Lily, she thought, as rage built up inside her.

"He stays, Vernon," she said, standing up, struggling to keep her voice level. "We are not putting Dudley in danger."

"But, dear –" Vernon protested

"He stays!" She shouted.

Vernon opened his mouth as if to reply, saw the expression on his wife's face, closed it again, and then nodded.

Petunia sighed and closed her eyes.

You will not be second best, Dudley, Petunia thought to herself. You will always come first. Always. You will not be overshadowed. She will never do that to my son.

Petunia opened her eyes and looked at Harry. To her surprise, he was now awake. He was looking at her with bright, green eyes. Lily's eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat.

For a moment, they stared at each other.

Then she turned away, and left the kitchen.

She left the boy to her husband. She had her own son to see.