The Silvia Potter Series
Silvia Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Blah, Blah, Blah.
First off this will be Femslash, so if you don't like do not read. No flames please. I'm not interested in them. They will be ignored and deleted. For those of you who will still continue even if Femslash is not your cup of tea. This story will not be overly sexually graphic. The story will remain T when it comes to sexual content at least. The Femslash relationship will probably be a long time in coming as I plan at this point to write through Harry and Silvia's years at Hogwarts one year at a time. It will be an arduous task I know. Really, I can't see 11 and 12 year olds in long lasting, romantic relationships, so until at least year three or four the stories can probably be considered pre-femslash.
Before delving into the story I will not only be adding another character, Harry's sister, I will probably significantly altering the Harry Potter cannon. The general events will probably align until year four, but I will be taking liberties with the history of wizarding Great Britain.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived and That Other One
On that fateful Halloween night Voldemort crept psycho-stalker into the invisible house of Godric Hallow in a deeply rooted need to exterminate himself through the killing of a child whose circumstances aligned to closely with his own for comfort. The Potter child was a half-blood. It was male. It had black hair. It hadn't murdered its own family yet, but Voldemort figured that the matricide, patricide, and sororicide would happen eventually; It was only a matter of a few measly years and what were years in the mind of an immortal? Blinks. It would only take a few blinks for the child to grasp the truth: men couldn't be truly great when family tried to pound them into the earth. Family killing was the first step in any conquer-the-earth campaign. Yes, it was only a matter of time.
It was for that reason that Voldemort decided to let that praying mantis woman live. Her prophecy would save his reign, a reign that would last thousands upon thousands of years, if his horcruxes functioned as they should. For her own pittance of time on this earth, she would be his personal seer that would double as a punching bag. The SPB position would be a very important one in his reign, part All Seeing Eye and part scapegoat. Perfect.
Voldemort paused. He grasped his yew wand between spiderlike fingers. He breathed in through his boringly human nose. It was shrouded in the darkness of his cloak, but he was still conscious of its inadequacies. He inhaled; pulling the skin of his nose as far back as it could go by exercising the muscles of his face. He knew from hours and hours of practice in front of the mirror that all the action managed to accomplish is a slight uplift of his thin, pointed nose. No matter how much he pulled and pulled he would never be able to attain the graceful open-holed look that his ever faithful Nagini was born with.
For a human he knew he was attractive with his tall physique, lean muscles, and delicate face that leant him a pretty boy look that served the dual purpose of attracting followers and instilling complacency and trust in all who saw him. No one would suspect such a beautiful human to be a murderer, a cultist, and an avid animal torturer. Human. Voldemort desired more than the human Tom Riddle Sr. or Jr. could provide him. He would obtain immortality even if he had to purge himself and the population on earth of the people who were and desired to be only human.
"Lily, it's him. Take the Harry and run."
The voice was male. That would be the elder Potter. The pureblood Potter: one of the individuals who should have been more than human. He had the potential; Voldemort could tell from the voice that did not falter as he said his good byes and came to face death like a true Gryffindor: Insanely brave, self-sacrificing, and suicidal to the last breathe. The Gryffindor Golden boy had a death wish. Voldemort felt his pulse thicken and his breathing pick up in anticipation of the hunt. He knew if he were a snake his venom would be gushing. Saliva filled his mouth in anticipation as he strolled through the red painted living room. A toy broom hovered in the corner, children books piled on the red mahogany coffee table in front of brown leather couches. All in all, the room was a mix of refinement and comfort. Nauseating.
The thought barely passed through his mind before a bolt of red light shot toward him. Voldemort flicked his wand. The stunner collided with a shimmering shield. The stunner shot back at James Potter. It hit. He fell in a heap of black hair, hazel eyes, and red robes. The Gryffindor Lion on Potter's old school robes reared back its head and roared, but no sound escaped. Voldemort padded over to the man. Thin lips twisted into a sneer. He hissed. The sound was low.
"Do not fear. Your family will be joining you soon."
Voldemort chuckled; it came out more as a hiss than an actual laugh. "Avada Kadavra."
James Potter's spirit tore from his body. Voldemort continued his leisure exploration of the house. He enjoyed the slow buildup of tension; the gradual accomplishment, the knowledge that he could sit downstairs in their sadly pedestrian living room for hours and he would still be able to accomplish his task. His ward charm would keep people in as much as they would keep them out until every person besides Lily and the girl were dead. Mother and daughter were to be a reward for Severus Snape for faithful and effective service. Voldemort was not without compassion.
Voldemort followed the whisper of a woman's voice to a bright red door. Inside the former Mrs. Potter huddled on the floor. Her continuous refrain of "I love you" sickened the self-proclaimed Dark Lord. Voldemort ignored the woman as soon as his eyes locked on the child's. The boy wore blue footie pajamas. The child's too large green eyes met Voldemort's. For a moment a silent staring contest took place as the woman unaware of the Dark Lord's presence continued to practice what in Voldemort's mind came dangerously close to idolatry. Voldemort gritted white tinted teeth; Voldemort's nose fell from its forced position of tension as he exhaled in annoyance.
The red haired woman stopped mid refrain. She pivoted and threw herself forward arms splayed. "Please. Not Harry. Not Silvia. Me. Take me instead."
"Move aside, silly woman. I came for the boy. Move aside and you will live." Great another suicidal Gryffindor, he eyed the sobbing woman with distaste, tongue darting out and sweeping over his lips. Some peoples priorities were so screwed.
"No, please. Take me."
Voldemort had warned her. He lifted his wand. "Avada Kadavra."
The body fell akimbo, head meeting the ground, eyes open. Pupils unseeingly landing on the twins huddled together. One green and one blue pajama clad baby started to scream at the same time. Clearly they got their inability to die with quiet grace from the former Mrs. Potter. Oh, well. Some people just couldn't live right the first time. With those thoughts, Voldemort said Avada Kadavra for the last time in his too human body.
As the killing curse rebounded from the blue clad baby, Voldemort listed the curses he was going to use on that rat Wormtail.
The spirit of Tom Riddle fled the premises and the wards fell. The spirit of Lily Potter circled her children, magic bleeding out, penetrating baby soft skin, spreading down the spinal cord, into the nerves, until it filled each child. As her spirit disentangled itself and passed beyond the veil to join her waiting husband, the children's cries quieted to whimpers. Harry Potter turned away from his dead mother and hugged his black plush dog.
Silvia, the girl twin, the daughter that was always slated to live, grasped at the bars of her cage and kept watch. Waiting. For what she did not know, the question would remain unanswered. It would get lost in the hustle of the crying Snuffles who was as much a dog to Silvia's young mind as he was a human. Snuffles Dog-Man would shift out of focus as soon as she rested in his musky scent. The hands that would grasp her next were big and clumsy. Course hair would scratch at her sensitive button nose and her dirt smeared cheeks. She didn't like it, but he too smelled musky like her Dog-Man, so she didn't put up a fuss. Harry cried though. He cried when Dog Man left, cried more when plush dog tumbled onto the glass cluttered floor, screamed when blood rolled into his eye from the cut on his head. Silvia listened from her place snuggled into the dog scented man's warm cloth covered flesh with drowsy disinterest. Crying with Almost Dog-Man was silly.
Almost Dog-Man jostled Silvia from her drowsy haze when he climbed clumsily onto the motorbike. She winced as a loud sound met her ears. It hurt, but that too passed. Then she was too busy gazing up at the passing dots of white light above her to fuss. She was wrenched from her game of star gazing by the bike hitting the ground. Silvia grunted her disgust at such a sloppy descent. Then Almost Dog-Man passed her on. A woman with square eyes gazed at her then. A finger slid teasingly down her check. Silvia grasped at the finger, but the cold air made Silvia's movement sluggish. She missed. The woman didn't notice and then the finger was gone. Silvia wanted. She wanted that finger; She wanted Dog-Man; She wanted mommy and daddy. As she was placed on the unforgiving concrete of Number 4 Privet Drive Harry close by, she would begin a new life where her own desires would be nonexistent. By the time she really desired something or someone else she would be too conditioned into not accepting her own wants and needs to readily accept them into her life. At least at first, like most things, acceptance would come with time.
It was not common knowledge that the Potters birthed twins instead of one son. Twins were not common in wizarding households; if one were to consult muggle doctors they might place the lack of fertility on the constant inbreeding, but no pureblood would ever consult a muggle doctor. After the attack on Godrics Hollow: the Potters were a common topic of discussion. Over breakfast and lunch, while on loo, or under Sally. If Harry was brought up, the sister who never seemed to have a concrete name seemed to follow.
The Harry Hay Day began not long after Hagrid left little 'Arry and Silvia cold and shivering on the stoop of the muggles' scarily step-ford house. Hagrid threw one ham sized leg over the motorbike, once again sat his too large bum onto the seat designed by humans for humans before driving the back of his calf into the kickstand. It came loose and flew through the window of the house across the street. For the second time that night glass shattered onto carpeted floor. Hagrid—too consumed by his own grief to care—decided he needed a pick-me-up, something to make him forget about the last fifty or so years of his life. Leaky Cauldron it is, he decided before flying off into the night with the roar of the bike motor.
If there ever was a man who was in need of Fire Whiskey it was the half giant. Lily and James were dead, Harry and Silvia were off to live with muggles, earlier that week he realized Fang, his supposedly male dog, was expecting a litter of mutt Chihuahuas—Hagrid hated Chihuahuas. Hagrid sucked a large lip into his mouth, trying to block a whimper at the soon to be mini-monstrosities. Hagrid really needed that drink, getting to the drink proved to more difficult than usual. For one, Hagrid had been unable to stop the chest tearing sobs that wracked his body. Steering became more of a hazard than a run of a mill ride. Hagrid would be driving between two buildings one second and the next his sobs would veer him off course. Time and time again he jerked out of the way of a wayward chimney or roof. The second difficulty was caused by wizards. As he was driving over Bristoll he was nearly fried by a dragon shaped firework. Once again his sobs caused his arms to jerk right before impact, the handles of the bike moved to the right, and the dragon merely grazed him leaving him with the scent of burnt hair and clothes.
Finally after an hour of sketchy driving, Hagrid touched down outside the Leaky Cauldron. As he entered he shrugged off his large over coat. He slung the coat over a stool next to the bar, set his large head against the pock marked table and began to sob in earnest. Tom, the proprietor, filled an oversized goblet with Fire Whiskey and placed it in front of Hagrid. Hagrid grabbed the stem of the goblet between his fist, wrenched his head off the table, brought the goblet to his mouth, and chugged the contents. In twenty seconds a year of sobriety was broken. Any dolt knew that to get piss drunk when hooligans with masks and robes ran around killing, maiming, and torturing was stupidity at worst, and suicidal at best. Contrary to popular belief Hagrid was not stupid or suicidal. Hagrid palmed at his craggy face, wiping at tears.
"Rough day?"
"Lily and James are dead and poor 'Arry and his wee sister are—"Hagrid cut himself off face flushing behind his brown mane. The twins whereabouts where meant to be top secret. Dumbledore—the great man—had trusted Hagrid with that secret, trusted him with the Potter children, with the future of the entire wizarding world, with the Boy-Who-Survived-The-Killing-Curse and That–Other-One. Ok, so Silvia hadn't accomplished something as profound as surviving the killing curse, but she had come face to face with Vo—He Who Must Not Be Named. She would have a great story to tell, well she would have had a good story to tell if she could talk or could remember the event when she finally managed to talk.
"They're safe?" Tom asked, his voice dragging from his mouth in a raspy growl betraying some werewolf genes in the family line.
"'Arry's fine. Poor lad has a mark like lightning, on his head. Dumbledore says it's gonna scar. His sis—well s'not like she went through anything. S'not like she was hit with the killing curse."
The whole room that had previously been full of raucous laughter and celebration quieted. The sounds of Hagrid's sniffles became louder. The other patrons had not heard that version of events. They knew You Know Who had been killed; They did not know how or even why. They also had not heard about Harry Potter, savior baby, who had been touched by death and survived.
Mundungus Fletcher, known as Dung or Dunghead, to his friends, clients, victims, and potential victims (the latter sometimes encompassing every person he comes in contact with) let out an uncharacteristic squeal at hearing the news. The noise startled a chap with a green bowler hat. The man looked down at the tiny bald man who had made such a girly noise only to find Dung's hands in the pockets of his robes. That hand was grasping onto a galleon as his body quacked with excitement.
"Sorry, slipped."
Bowler man squeaked something about a time to celebrate and forgiveness as Dung removed his hand. Dung pocketed the galleon. He smoothed down his grease stained muggle clothes before hurrying over to join the crowd that had converged around Hagrid.
"He survived the killing curse?" asked a young man with the physique of a ghecko, spindly limbs and a thin body.
"No, of course not, you imbecile. No one survives the killing curse," said a man with a red goatee and large ears.
Dung's nose twitched. He could smell a get rich quick scheme. Dung felt a moment of shame at the thought of using orphans to make a quick buck, but then he remembered the piles of job applications for the ministry that his mother kept slipping under the door of his room. The last one was for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Dung couldn't stomach undoing his own pranks, so he pushed the first ounce of shame he felt since he himself was no more than a swaddling babe and commenced his plan.
"Course he didn't survive the killing curse. Only a powerful wizard—more powerful than Dumbledore or—or Merlin could do it. Harry Potter is Ordinary. N'way he—"
For the first time that night Hagrid felt the urge to lunge at his over coat and grab his pink umbrella from the inside pocket. His giant lips pulled tight. His mind fogged with ale, Hagrid tore to his feet sending his stool flying into an old couple behind him.
"He did do it; He did. They both did. They all did?"
"Would you say they are better magically than Crouch?"
"Barty Crouch. That idiot? Yes, you no good—"
"Better than Crouch." Dung smiled a smile that would make the Cheshire Cat proud.
The Daily Prophet
"Harry Potter for Kingister"
By Rita Skeeter
Harry Potter, that one-year-old boy that managed to kill the Dark Lord when both Dumbledore and the ministry were unable, has amassed a following. Mundungus Fletcher, a former Slytherin who has selflessly decided to be Potter's campaign manager, is at the head of these individuals that have taken to painting lightning bolts onto their cheeks in commemoration of Harry Potter's first great act. It was Mundungus Fletcher who coined the term 'The-Boy-Who-Lived'. "'s catchy, ya?" asked Dung. Dung could not be more right if he turned into a lightning bolt. As catchy as Harry Potters moniker is, Dung is heading a campaign to gift a better title onto our tragic hero: Kingister. It is this writer's belief that the The-Boy-Who-Lived should be the only ruler of Wizarding Great Britain. "Only squibs leave their safety to fools that will rob you blind with one hand and lead you to your slaughter with the other," said Mundungus at his Harry Potter for Kingister Rally.
The rally took place in Diagon Alley on November 1st only a day after Harry was robbed of his parents, his sister, and his good looks (see page 19 for information on the scar that mutilated the greatest bachelor of our time and changed magic as we know it). His sister is alive, one skeptic in the back of the crowd yelled. The man was asked politely to leave the premises because of his impolite behavior at the Potter Remembrance Rally by heavily muscled trolls. After I questioned Mundungus on his decision to hold both Rally's on the same day, he said "I know if my mam' died; she would want me to become Kingister as soon as possible."
Kingister is a new title that will be bestowed on the mutilated young man if he wins the coming election for Prime Minister. As Kingister he would retain all the offices of Prime Minister with the added bonus of making his dead mum proud and retaining the office until the day he dies-again. A new flag would be created to celebrate a new age: the age of the lightning bolt. Until Potter is Kingister, Mundungus Fletcher has taken to wearing the flag wrapped around his short and stout torso. The Flag, Dung confesses, was seen by the famous seer Sybill Trewlawney. If that name sounds familiar it should. Sybill is the great-great-granddaughter of Cassandra Trelawney (See page 34 for the Trelawney family history including the chilling accounts of Cassandra's barbaric use of human entrails for divination). "The stars want, what the stars want," Trelawney said, her voice billowed from behind her pink shawl, as she commented on the likelihood of Harry becoming the first Kingister. "Clearly the stars are in his favor."
The Daily Prophet
"Crouch: Deatheater"
By Rita Skeeter
The other candidate for the position of Prime Minister is Bartemius Crouch Senior. Crouch advocates on the use of unforgivable during any situation. This reporter heard B. Crouch tell his dear friend and death eater Ludo Bagman "sometimes you have to beat them into submission." Even Bagman, conniving death eater, was appalled. "But the children" he said. "Must learn their place" Crouch said firmly while smoothing his mustache. The gesture looked obscene to me. Is it possible that Crouch harbors some unnatural sexual predilections?
Will Harry Potter make a good Kingister? The real question is: Do you feel comfortable giving Crouch that kind of power?
I'll give you the answer: NO.
This reporter is here to report new information to inquiring minds. Bartemius Crouch Junior was apprehended by Aurors Wednesday night at Auror Longbottom's house (For further information about the Ancient House of Longbottom see page 24). A drunken post-adolescent binge you might be thinking? Think again. Junior was found with the robes and mask of the death eater. Junior denies all affiliation with the dark lord and his fellow death eaters: Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black, Rodolphus Lestrange, and Rebastan Lestrange. Both Auror Longbottom and his wife were held under the cruciatus curse. The healers believe that they are unlikely to recover.
Whether Crouch Senior is a death eater is not the question. The pertinent question, I believe, is this: should we trust a man that cannot raise his son to become an upstanding member of society in a place of office?
This reporter says NO.
Jacques Bell formerly Jacques Yvelt before his marriage five years ago to the English Heiress Helena Bell slumped in a leather chair, his daughter Katie Bell curled into his side, her breathes coming with the steady exhale of the sleeping. It had been a long day, a day that would continue until his wife of five years apparated home. Jacques closed his eyes. No one said that he couldn't rest his eyes until she came home. Later, if asked, Jacques Bell couldn't tell when the light that seeped through his eye lids from the green, red, and purple flames in the fireplace faded to black.
Helena Bell's apparation home was accompanied by the feeling of being twisted and squeezed through a very small tube. She arrived in the foyer in one piece, something she wasn't sure she would accomplish because her eyes felt like ants were running across them, her limbs felt tired from hours upon hours of casting healing spell after healing spell. The whole week had been a week of overtime, broken bones, shattered minds, and death. It seemed that with the disappearance of Voldemort, his followers were getting in a last minute hurrah before retiring their Death Eater robes and mask. Hopefully things would improve. Hopefully Lord and Lady Potter's deaths would not have been for nothing.
The thought of the Potters, one the few older Pureblood families besides the Bells themselves who had broken the century long tradition of intermarrying, gone made Helena stretch her pale lips into a frown. It was a loss: a loss of an ally in the political mess that was English Wizarding Politics and a loss of good friends despite the five year age gap. It was a shame the Potter twins would never know their parents; they had been remarkable people.
It was about time she tracked down her own family. Helena started toward the door; it had been too long since she had seen her daughter Katie or her husband. The hours of a junior healer were already long, but the war had made the need for healers high and the availability of them low, the result, more time at work, less at home.
"Squicky," Helena said, as she strolled past the sleeping Bell family portraits.
"Lady called?" Squicky appeared with a crack already in a bow. The elderly house elf's steel grey eyes seemed to pop from his head and a jagged scar ran down one green cheek.
Helena swept her hand before her, a silent order to accompany her. Counteracting the haughty motion, Helena slowed her pace allowing the elf to move at a painless pace. "My husband and daughter—"
"In the Red Study," Squicky said.
Helena stopped in front of a black marble staircase. "Thank you, why don't you get some rest."
"As Lady wishes." With a bow Squicky disappeared with another crack.
It was time to focus on her family once again. With that Lady Bell smoothed down her blue cotton robes and began her trudge up the stairs.
Silvia Potter lay in the dark. She hated the dark as much as she missed Dog-Man. She remembered his bark and his smell. All she had in this new world was Harry. He slept next to her. She couldn't see him, but she could hear him, feel his breathe against her neck. It tickled and she wanted to tell him to stop, but she didn't have the words or the will. She was sleepy. She wanted to sleep, but her soppy diaper hurt and her stomach ached, and her eyes couldn't see even when she managed to lift dirt covered fingers in front of her face with waning muscles.
Silvia bit her lip as she forced back tears. Silvia wanted to cry, but the mean lady that spat in her face when her thin lips formed those sounds in her nasally voice would come. Silvia used to whimper, but then Harry would cry and the Mean Lady would come and then Silvia would cry when the pain came and Mean Lady would yell more, so Silvia stared into the darkness. Willing some light to come to her, trying and failing not to think about her pain.
In the dark two twins huddled together, two green eyed babies who had lost their parents and their safety in one night. They were different genders, different people, but as androgynous as children are they could have been identical. Then something changed. For a moment Silvia could see the ceiling as clear as if it was day. Her eyes for a brief moment were silver and then silver faded from the eyes and the light began to recede. Silvia blinked and she was once again engulfed in black. For the time being they were once again two almost identical twins.
The years would bleed past and the changes in Silvia's appearance would build as the dark nights and the hungry, thirsty, and aching days melded like a kaleidoscope. By the time Silvia opened her eyes on her eleventh birthday no green would remain in the iris. As she sat, she would push strands of red and black hair from her hollowed face. She would lick at chapped lips, before turning silver eyes to the sleeping form of her brother. She would wrap bony fingers around Harry's shoulder. She couldn't know it, but very soon her life would change forever.
Well that's it for this week. I have the first 15 chapters, the chapters that will cover the first year at Hogwarts, roughly planned out. I'll try to update at least once every week or two weeks.
Excuse any typos, grammar mess-ups, etc. I'll do my best to catch all the issues, but things do slip through.
If you have any questions, concerns, suggestions, or comments please feel free to leave a review.