AN:
Author: Hey, people. Kal here.
Deadpool: And Deadpool! Don't forget Deadpool!
Author: *sigh* Deadpool, you're not even going to be in this story.
Deadpool: Aww, come on! Just a small role? A cameo? A small wave 'hello' to the audience?
Author: No.
Deadpool: I know! I can play Dumbledore! No one will notice! I've been practicing my old-man-meddling skills!
Author: No, Deadpool. Richard Harris agreed to come back from the dead to play Dumbledore for Harry's first two years at Hogwarts, after which he'll die again and Michael Gambon will take the role.
Deadpool: *old man voice* Is that so, young author? Are you sure? *eye twinkle*
Author: Nice eye twinkle, but the answer's the same.
Deadpool: Damn you, Richard Harris and slash Michael Gambon!
Author: Now, if you're done fucking around… *turns to readers* Sorry about that. Since this is already taking too long, I'll just get on with it. I don't own anything, and I make no money from writing this. This story will contain several things that may offend people with small minds, so if that's you, fuck off.
Deadpool: Yeah, fuck off small minded assholes!
Author: … Thank you, Deadpool. Now, as I'm wont to say, enjoy or suffer!
Harry Potter: Lord of the Sith
Prologue: The Boy-Who-Lived
November 1st, 1981, 1:17 am
Privet Dr., Little Whinging, Surry, UK
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could only just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. (*)
However, Dumbledore and his companions hadn't been the only ones on the street that night. Slowly, a robed and hooded figure melted out of the shadows. Once fully physical again, the figure walked over to the small bundle and picked it up.
"Alas, little one," the figure spoke, revealing an elderly female voice, "You have a hard destiny ahead of you. Living here would make you good-hearted, as the fool wanted, but it would also make you weak. Much rests on you, and you cannot afford to be weak. No, you must be strong. We will teach you. I'm sure Valarius won't mind setting up a small Academy branch on this world. Very remote. Yes, I see much in your future. Wonderful darkness now prevails in it. Come, little one. Let us leave this repulsive place. Your destiny awaits."
With that, the woman walked away carrying young Harry Potter, and once again melted into the night.
November 3rd, 1981, 12:30 pm
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Headmaster's Office
Dumbledore was concerned. He moved around his office looking and poking at various little doodads and whatsits, trying to get reactions from them. Unfortunately they weren't working. Some hadn't even started working where they should have, and some that were working suddenly stopped. This wasn't good.
All of the instruments he was poking around with were keyed to one person in particular: Harry Potter. They all should be working fine, with him safe at his relatives, each giving readings (in their own unique way) about his status and the status of the wards around the house. Unfortunately the wards didn't seem to have activated, and the ones monitoring him weren't working either. It wasn't that he was dead; the instruments would have reported that; it was that they stopped working entirely.
Dumbledore frowned, poking yet another useless doodad (it was supposed to show the status of Harry's magical core: three green puffs of smoke meant his core was healthy, two yellow puffs meant it was half depleted, one red puff meant nearly empty, and one continuous stream of black meant it was completely empty, rendering him a squib). No response.
Standing up straight, Dumbledore decided he would have to go to Privet Dr. himself to see if something had gone wrong.
With a quick turn on his heel, he was gone.
Privet Dr., Little Whinging, Surry, UK
Dumbledore reappeared on the corner of Privet Drive and began walking towards number four; either ignoring or not noticing the stares he was getting for his odd clothes. As he neared the house, he tried to get a feel for the status of the wards, only to find, to his shock, that there were none.
Dumbledore walked up and knocked on the door four times, trying to figure out what could possibly have gone wrong.
When Petunia Dursley opened the door and saw who it was, her eyes widened in anger and fear.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed at him, glancing around nervously, seeing the staring neighbors. "What do you want?"
"Ah, I was just wondering how Harry was fitting in, you see," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.
"Who?" Petunia asked, momentarily forgetting her anger. "Who are you talking about?"
"Harry Potter," he said, confused. "Your nephew."
"Why would that freak be here?" Petunia demanded. "You would think my 'perfect' sister would look after her own child!"
Dumbledore frowned at her. Hadn't she read his note?
"Your sister and her husband are dead, Petunia," he said slowly. "They died Halloween night. I brought young Harry here and placed him on your doorstep with a note that very night. Surely, you couldn't have missed that!"
"I'll have you know that there were no babies on my doorstep at all, ever," Petunia snapped. "As for my sister being dead, good riddance to bad rubbish I say!" With that, she slammed the door so hard, if he hadn't backed away in time his nose would have been even more crooked.
Dumbledore stared at the door in shock and horror as realization flooded him. Someone must have taken young Harry that very night. He had assumed that there wouldn't be any muggles out that night, and no other magicals would be in the area, or so he thought. Obviously he was wrong.
Quickly apparating to a secluded area, he began casting several locating and finding spells, not all of them completely legal, but this was desperate. Unfortunately, it was useless. All of his spells came up with nothing, as though Harry didn't exist.
Dumbledore then apparated to his office and walked over to his familiar, Fawkes.
"My friend," he said. "I need your help. I need you to flame travel me to Harry Potter's location."
'Very well, old friend,' Fawkes sent. Being Dumbledore's familiar as well as being a naturally magical creature, Fawkes was able to speak mentally with Dumbledore.
Fawkes flew over and landed on Dumbledore's shoulder and prepared to travel. Small flames flicked over his wings as he concentrated, then Fawkes gave a rather undignified squawk.
'I can't get to him,' Fawkes said, alarmed. 'It's like something is blocking me!'
Dumbledore frowned. "Blocking you?" he asked. "No one knows how to block phoenix travel, not even me!"
'Well apparently someone does,' Fawkes retorted, flying back to his perch.
"Can you at least tell if he's alive?" Dumbledore asked, desperate.
'Yes,' Fawkes replied, happy to give his friend some good news. 'I was able to sense him, but I couldn't get to him, nor can I tell where he is. I'm sorry.' Fawkes then glared slightly at Dumbledore. 'You could have just checked the school registry to confirm that he's alive, you know. You didn't have to ask me.'
Dumbledore's eyes widened as he realized this, and rushed over to do just that, leaving a grumbling phoenix behind.
When he reached said book, he quickly turned it to First Years for 1991. A quick skim settled his nerves somewhat, as he saw Harry James Potter written clear as day. If he had died, his name would have vanished from the book. Whatever was blocking his instruments seemed to have not effected the ancient magic of the book.
Relieved that he was at least alive, Dumbledore resigned himself to having to wait 10 years to know the boy's location, when the letter system would automatically write down his address on his acceptance letter. He made up his mind that he would deliver the letter himself, to make sure that young Harry was safe.
Not that he would be idle until then. No, he fully intended to try and find the boy before then, but he doubted he would succeed. Still, he had to try.
(*) Taken from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Chapter 1: The Boy-Who-Lived
AN:
Author: Well, what did you think? Love it? Hate it? Want to gauge your eyes out? If any of these are true, please leave a review, and please, no flames! If you flame, I'll have Deadpool cut you into tiny pieces and feed to his dog.
Deadpool: *praying* Pleaseflamepleaseflamepleaseflamepleaseflame…
Author: *sigh* Just so you guys know, the title may change. If you have any ideas, leave them in a review or pm me. I'm always open to suggestions. Also, I know it's short, but it's just a prologue. The real chapters should be much longer (hopefully). See you guys next time!
Deadpool: *still praying* Pleaseflamepleaseflamepleaseflamepleaseflame…
Author: *sigh*