Hannah Potter and The Philosopher's Stone

Prologue


James Potter had always wanted a son. Someone to share his Quidditch obsession, someone to carry on his pranking legacy as a Marauder-someone to be a miniature James. So when the baby that his wife was carrying turned out to be a girl, he was more than a bit disappointed (something which disgruntled Lily to no end-she had wanted a girl, after all).

But the moment his baby daughter was born, perhaps to no one's surprise but his, he was instantly in love with her, and all his dreams of a James Jr. were forgotten. He loved Hannah Lily Potter and was already vowing to hex any boy that came within ten feet of his baby daughter.

It was enough to make Lily roll her eyes. But she was glad. She had been a bit worried that James would let all his ridiculous fantasies of the next James stop him from fully loving Hannah. She should have known that her fears were just that-fears. Groundless ideas fueled by worry and an overactive imagination.

Hannah Potter was already quite the daddy's girl. Lily swore she had him wrapped around her tiny baby finger. He was gaga over her, spoiling her absolutely rotten. She wondered if every man was simply putty in their daughters' hands; she had been quite the daddy's girl herself.

She couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face as she watched her husband feed their daughter. He had oatmeal on his nose and robes but didn't seem to mind. She observed them with a smile, thinking that in a way, James had gotten what he wanted in Hannah. His daughter looked just like him, right down to the messy black hair and ever present grin. The only proof that she had any contribution to Hannah's conception were her bright green eyes.

Hannah had even inherited his Quidditch talent (it certainly didn't come from her; she was rubbish on a broom), already flying like the next big Quidditch star on her toy broom. James was absolutely ecstatic and Lily could only shake her head in exasperation and mild disapproval. Her boisterous baby girl was really her father's daughter. But she couldn't really feel angry about that. Because even with all the complaints, she was happier than she had been in a long time. Since the start of the war, things had been getting worse by the day. She had begun to feel the strain of it all and was a lot less happy for it.

But when baby Hannah came along, she felt as if her heart would burst from joy. Hannah Lily Potter had brought hope to their house. Even when they were forced to go into hiding to protect their daughter's life, she still felt unreasonably happy. Though the threat of death hung over their heads, she found that as long as their daughter was safe, she could be happy.

When the time came that she was forced to meet her maker, she had little regrets. She had done all she could to save her daughter, and maybe it would be enough. Though their time together had been cut tragically short, they were still the happiest times of her life, and she could find no regret in that. She found peace at the thought of her daughter, happy and safe. She clung to that hope as the green light struck her.


Minerva McGonagall had been against the idea of sending Hannah Potter to live with her Muggle relatives since the beginning, and the feeling only intensified over the years. She had had her doubts that day, but had been swayed by Albus' words easily enough. Too easily, she thought in retrospect. It had been a mistake, to send her to live with her only living blood relatives. Because though they were related by blood, they couldn't be further apart in the ways that mattered. Petunia and Vernon Dursley were the poster children for anti-muggle propaganda. They hated Magic to an unreasonable degree and mercilessly took it out on Hannah. They treated their niece horribly, feeding her the barest minimum needed for survival—she was an absolute rail!—and making her do all the chores while her oversized cousin lounged around, played games, and bullied Hannah. And all without one kind word to her! The way they spoke to her! They treated her little better than a house elf—and at least house elves enjoyed doing chores. It was shameful, and it made Minerva more than a bit angry.

She had told Albus on more than one occasion how they treated Hannah. But every time, he would gloss over their actions and comfort her over what she saw. As if she were the one needing comforting! His callous reactions had caused her to be more than a bit chilly with him as of late. And his absolute refusal to tell her anything only made it worse her. She was not an idiot. She knew that he was just as incensed at the Dursley's actions as she was (he wasn't that good of an actor either; she had known him for over twenty years after all)—but for some reason that he wouldn't tell her, he couldn't do anything about it. Which was bloody ridiculous! He was Albus Dumbledore! The only wizard Voldemort ever feared! Did he really expect her to believe that he was afraid of a bunch of bigoted Muggles?

Whatever it was, it had to be more important than that. Nothing less could excuse such negligence. She only wished that he would simply tell her what it was so she could stop beating him and herself up over Hannah's living conditions. But Albus Dumbledore was quite the stubborn man. She knew that he would not relent once his mind was made up so she could only sigh and hope that he knew what he was doing. Which contrary to the Wizarding world was not all the time. Albus Dumbledore was only a man after all. A very powerful and brilliant man, but still a man. And men make mistakes. Minerva could only hope this wasn't one of them.

Minerva was only all too glad when the day finally came to give Hannah Potter her school letter.