Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone : REViSED !!
This is a fanfic based on the first movie in a trilogy directed by Chris
Columbus. Except there are a few things changed. A few.
I switch off whose point of view I'm writing in between Ron, Hermione, Harry, and my added character. Occasionally I might slip in a chapter or two in Draco's point, but we'll get to that later.
I've rated it PG-13 for added language. Geeze, not everybody has to be a saint. ;) Anyway, just read it, and review if you'd like, I'm sure it'll be great story.
~*~ Chapter One ~*~
Doorstep Delivery
In Nobody's Point of View
It was a cold night. The mist hung around Privet Drive, creating an illusion that a thin cloak hung around Little Whinging. The shadows were elongated, for the moon barely pierced through the fog. The street was deserted, and nothing lingered there save a small tabby cat with square spectacles around its eyes, perched on a garden fence in front of the house labeled Number 4. Common folk would have thought these kinds of markings were peculiar; but there was not a person on the street. After all, it was very late in the night.
Quite suddenly, a man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching. He was there so suddenly, you'd have thought he was just pulled out of thin air. Like magic. The cat's eyes narrowed and its tail twitched. For a minute, the cat seemed to stare at the man on the far away corner; it seemed to judge him. After a few moments staring, the cat relaxed - except, in the blink of an eye, the cat wasn't a cat anymore. Exactly where the tabby was sitting, a woman was standing, wearing square glasses in the exact shape of the markings around the cat's eyes. She was wearing an emerald cloak, her ebony hair combed into a tight bun, and the look on her face gave the impression that she was distinctly miffed. She refrained from calling out to the man at the corner; she continued to stare and wait.
The man at the corner stroked his extremely long beard (long enough to be tucked into his belt) thoughtfully. His bright eyes, shielded behind half moon spectacles, darted this way and that, surveying the street. Nodding his head in approval, the man began to rummage through his purple cloak, mumbling to himself. At long last, the man found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. With long, slender fingers, he pulled out what looked like a silver cigarette lighter. He smiled to himself, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The street lamp closest to him flickered out. He clicked it again, and the second nearest street lamp flickered and died. He clicked it 12 times until all the lights on Privet Drive went out. Now, even if someone were to look outside, they could not see what was happening in the street below.
The man put the Put-Outer back in his inside pocket and started walking down the street towards the house labeled Number 4. He stopped in front of it, pivoted on one high-heeled, black, buckled boot, and peered down at the woman sitting on the garden fence.
"I should have known you would be here, Professor McGonagall," the man said in a misty voice. The corners of his lips were tugged upward into a grin.
"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," Professor McGonagall replied. She nodded her head in a slight greeting. Professor Dumbledore walked silently up to the garden fence and sat next to Professor McGonagall, stroking his beard, obviously deep in thought.
Professor McGonagall twitched anxiously. "Are the rumors true, Albus?" she asked, breaking the silence.
"I'm afraid so Professor - the good, and the bad," the man replied calmly.
"And the boy?"
"Hagrid is bringing him."
Professor McGonagall's lips thinned as if she deeply disapproved of the man's statement. She opened her mouth as if to say something, paused, re- thought the sentence, and spoke, trying to sound polite. "Do you think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
Albus Dumbledore turned and peered at Professor McGonagall. "Ah, Minerva, you know as well as any that I would trust Hagrid with my life."
Annoyed, Professor McGonagall huffed an impatient sigh and looked behind her at the house labeled Number 4, her eyes narrowing repulsion. She shuddered and turned away, as if she couldn't stand to look at the house. Silence descended on both Professors as the night progressed.
Suddenly, a low rumbling sound shattered the silence around the two. Professor McGonagall flinched once, and the noise grew steadily louder. Professor Dumbledore looked to his right and saw a huge headlight coming towards them. The rumbling noise swelled to a roar and Professor Dumbledore's words were barely heard over the commotion. "Ah," he said, sounding relieved, "Hagrid has arrived." Professor McGonagall pursed her lips for a second, as if stopping herself from saying something rude.
Alas, neither of the two was affected as a gigantic motorcycle fell out of the sky and landed right in front of them. If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing compared to the man riding it. He was probably twice the height of any normal man, and at most five times as wide. Long tangles of wild bushy black hair and beard covered most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their boots were like baby dolphins. In his extremely large, muscular arms, he held a bundle of blankets.
The giant tapped the kickstand with the boot of his toe and carefully climbed off the motorcycle. He turned to the two Professors and nodded his head in greeting. "Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid said in a deep, raspy voice.
"No problems, I trust, Hagrid?" Professor Dumbledore asked Hagrid inquisitively as he stood up from the garden fence. He held out a hand to Professor McGonagall, a polite gesture to help her up, and she took it. Professor McGonagall took his hand and stood, then folded her arms across her chest.
"No sir, no problems," Hagrid replied. "Little tyke fell asleep just as we were flying over Bristol." With that, Albus walked over to Hagrid and took the bundle of blankets from his arms. Both Professors leaned over and in the bundle, just visible, was a little boy with a tuft of jet-black hair on his head. The most peculiar thing about this boy, however, was that he had a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead.
Professor Dumbledore turned on his heal and started to walk towards the house labeled Number 4, followed closely by Professor McGonagall.
"Albus," Professor McGonagall said worriedly, "do you really think it's safe? Leaving him with these Muggles... I've watched them all day! They're the worst sort of Muggles imaginable!" When Professor Dumbledore didn't reply, she continued. "They really are-"
"The only family he has," Professor Dumbledore interrupted simply.
Professor McGonagall brandished off the comment and, determined to change Professor Dumbledore's mind, continued to talk. "This child will be famous. There won't be a child in our world who doesn't know his name!"
"Exactly," Professor Dumbledore said, placing the boy-with-the-lightning- cut-on his-forehead down on the step of the house of Number 4. "He's far better off growing up away from all of that." Obviously, the man's mind had been unchanged.
Behind both of them, Hagrid was weeping, trying but failing to be silent.
"There there Hagrid," Professor Dumbledore said reassuringly. "It's not really goodbye, after all." He turned back to the boy and placed an envelope on the sleeping baby's stomach, addressed:
Mr and Mrs. Vernon Dursley
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
"Good luck," Professor Dumbledore said softly, "Harry Potter."
I switch off whose point of view I'm writing in between Ron, Hermione, Harry, and my added character. Occasionally I might slip in a chapter or two in Draco's point, but we'll get to that later.
I've rated it PG-13 for added language. Geeze, not everybody has to be a saint. ;) Anyway, just read it, and review if you'd like, I'm sure it'll be great story.
~*~ Chapter One ~*~
Doorstep Delivery
In Nobody's Point of View
It was a cold night. The mist hung around Privet Drive, creating an illusion that a thin cloak hung around Little Whinging. The shadows were elongated, for the moon barely pierced through the fog. The street was deserted, and nothing lingered there save a small tabby cat with square spectacles around its eyes, perched on a garden fence in front of the house labeled Number 4. Common folk would have thought these kinds of markings were peculiar; but there was not a person on the street. After all, it was very late in the night.
Quite suddenly, a man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching. He was there so suddenly, you'd have thought he was just pulled out of thin air. Like magic. The cat's eyes narrowed and its tail twitched. For a minute, the cat seemed to stare at the man on the far away corner; it seemed to judge him. After a few moments staring, the cat relaxed - except, in the blink of an eye, the cat wasn't a cat anymore. Exactly where the tabby was sitting, a woman was standing, wearing square glasses in the exact shape of the markings around the cat's eyes. She was wearing an emerald cloak, her ebony hair combed into a tight bun, and the look on her face gave the impression that she was distinctly miffed. She refrained from calling out to the man at the corner; she continued to stare and wait.
The man at the corner stroked his extremely long beard (long enough to be tucked into his belt) thoughtfully. His bright eyes, shielded behind half moon spectacles, darted this way and that, surveying the street. Nodding his head in approval, the man began to rummage through his purple cloak, mumbling to himself. At long last, the man found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. With long, slender fingers, he pulled out what looked like a silver cigarette lighter. He smiled to himself, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The street lamp closest to him flickered out. He clicked it again, and the second nearest street lamp flickered and died. He clicked it 12 times until all the lights on Privet Drive went out. Now, even if someone were to look outside, they could not see what was happening in the street below.
The man put the Put-Outer back in his inside pocket and started walking down the street towards the house labeled Number 4. He stopped in front of it, pivoted on one high-heeled, black, buckled boot, and peered down at the woman sitting on the garden fence.
"I should have known you would be here, Professor McGonagall," the man said in a misty voice. The corners of his lips were tugged upward into a grin.
"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," Professor McGonagall replied. She nodded her head in a slight greeting. Professor Dumbledore walked silently up to the garden fence and sat next to Professor McGonagall, stroking his beard, obviously deep in thought.
Professor McGonagall twitched anxiously. "Are the rumors true, Albus?" she asked, breaking the silence.
"I'm afraid so Professor - the good, and the bad," the man replied calmly.
"And the boy?"
"Hagrid is bringing him."
Professor McGonagall's lips thinned as if she deeply disapproved of the man's statement. She opened her mouth as if to say something, paused, re- thought the sentence, and spoke, trying to sound polite. "Do you think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
Albus Dumbledore turned and peered at Professor McGonagall. "Ah, Minerva, you know as well as any that I would trust Hagrid with my life."
Annoyed, Professor McGonagall huffed an impatient sigh and looked behind her at the house labeled Number 4, her eyes narrowing repulsion. She shuddered and turned away, as if she couldn't stand to look at the house. Silence descended on both Professors as the night progressed.
Suddenly, a low rumbling sound shattered the silence around the two. Professor McGonagall flinched once, and the noise grew steadily louder. Professor Dumbledore looked to his right and saw a huge headlight coming towards them. The rumbling noise swelled to a roar and Professor Dumbledore's words were barely heard over the commotion. "Ah," he said, sounding relieved, "Hagrid has arrived." Professor McGonagall pursed her lips for a second, as if stopping herself from saying something rude.
Alas, neither of the two was affected as a gigantic motorcycle fell out of the sky and landed right in front of them. If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing compared to the man riding it. He was probably twice the height of any normal man, and at most five times as wide. Long tangles of wild bushy black hair and beard covered most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their boots were like baby dolphins. In his extremely large, muscular arms, he held a bundle of blankets.
The giant tapped the kickstand with the boot of his toe and carefully climbed off the motorcycle. He turned to the two Professors and nodded his head in greeting. "Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid said in a deep, raspy voice.
"No problems, I trust, Hagrid?" Professor Dumbledore asked Hagrid inquisitively as he stood up from the garden fence. He held out a hand to Professor McGonagall, a polite gesture to help her up, and she took it. Professor McGonagall took his hand and stood, then folded her arms across her chest.
"No sir, no problems," Hagrid replied. "Little tyke fell asleep just as we were flying over Bristol." With that, Albus walked over to Hagrid and took the bundle of blankets from his arms. Both Professors leaned over and in the bundle, just visible, was a little boy with a tuft of jet-black hair on his head. The most peculiar thing about this boy, however, was that he had a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead.
Professor Dumbledore turned on his heal and started to walk towards the house labeled Number 4, followed closely by Professor McGonagall.
"Albus," Professor McGonagall said worriedly, "do you really think it's safe? Leaving him with these Muggles... I've watched them all day! They're the worst sort of Muggles imaginable!" When Professor Dumbledore didn't reply, she continued. "They really are-"
"The only family he has," Professor Dumbledore interrupted simply.
Professor McGonagall brandished off the comment and, determined to change Professor Dumbledore's mind, continued to talk. "This child will be famous. There won't be a child in our world who doesn't know his name!"
"Exactly," Professor Dumbledore said, placing the boy-with-the-lightning- cut-on his-forehead down on the step of the house of Number 4. "He's far better off growing up away from all of that." Obviously, the man's mind had been unchanged.
Behind both of them, Hagrid was weeping, trying but failing to be silent.
"There there Hagrid," Professor Dumbledore said reassuringly. "It's not really goodbye, after all." He turned back to the boy and placed an envelope on the sleeping baby's stomach, addressed:
Mr and Mrs. Vernon Dursley
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
"Good luck," Professor Dumbledore said softly, "Harry Potter."