1: You may be thinking, "Why should I read this story? The author has a history of leaving stories unfinished."

You would be correct. However, I now have something which I lacked before: an alpha reader! Having someone who lives in the same room with you constantly asking, "Can I read more yet? Have you written more yet?" is a great incentive to finish stories. This story is already three chapters written, and I hope to continue posting every 1-2 weeks between now and the end of the story with few-to-none interruptions in that schedule. If you are till listening, thank you for your patience.

And now, without further ado, the second note.

2: This is an alternate universe story. As such, it deviates rather early from the universe J.K. Rowling envisioned. Therefore, though I am going to be as true to the spirit of the original novels as possible, sometimes my timelines and character relationships will not match up perfectly.

On a side note, did you know that the full moon closest to the day Harry was born was on the 28, three days prior?

And NOW without further ado, the actual story.

…..

Chapter 1: He Wasn't Trying…

"Lily and James… I didn't want to believe it, Albus… Why couldn't he kill Harry?" The stern matriarch was rendered incoherent by her grief.

"We can only guess, my dear Professor." Albus Dumbledore said gravely. "We may never know."

"Can't you do something about his scar, Albus?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy."

They left him on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive, a letter laid atop his blankets. Harry Potter sighed and curled around his letter, not knowing that his parents were dead and he was alone, not knowing that he would be woken by the shrill screams of his aunt in an hour, not knowing that all across the country, in hidden enclaves people raised their glasses to him- "To Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived."

This story, though, is not about Harry. Although it was true-Harry was alive-the story that was told, wizard to wizard, friend to friend, all across England, was false.

Harry Potter was never hit with the Killing Curse.

…

Frank and Alice Longbottom were a very normal married couple. They lived in a small cottage near Longbottom Manor (home to Lady Augusta Longbottom, matriarch of their clan, and Frank's mother) with their small son Neville. Frank worked with a nearby potions supplier as an herbologist. He was not exceptional, but he was decent, and they were relatively well-off.

Their closest friends were James and Lily Potter; thus, they were quite excited when their sons were born on the same muggy night in July. At least, the men were. The women were rather… distracted.

…

The mediwitch brought out the first small bundle. Tousled black hair peeked out from the edge of the blanket, and the child was deposited in James' shaking arms.

"It's a boy." she said briskly. "Make sure to support his head." She trotted off to care for her other patient.

"A son." James Potter said, wonderingly. "I have a son."

Frank barely gave him a nod as the second bundle was deposited in his arms. He gave an incoherent affirmation to the mediwitch when she said that this, too, was a boy, and that he was not to unwrap him or drop him, or anything of that sort. She did not seem to think very highly of the intelligence of new fathers.

As soon as she left, Frank pulled the cloth from around his son's head, and gazed at it in awe. This was his child; he was a father. The world suddenly became something that was to be defended against, rather than laughed at and battled. He took in his son's features for a while, then his face crinkled in concern.

"He's bald, James! Are they supposed to be bald?"

"Mine's not. See? Hair like his father."

"What did I do? Will he be bald his whole life? Is there something we can do about this?"

"I don't know. We can talk to the mediwitch…"

"Yes!" Frank rushed into the room, where he was brought up short by the sight of his exhausted and lovely wife. She smiled at him tiredly.

Unthinkingly, he lowered his voice. "How are you?"

She gave a weary laugh. "I'm fine, Frank. May I hold our son?"

Automatically, he handed over the bundle, then remembered why he had come in in the first place. "He's bald, Alice! What are we supposed to do? Do they have a potion for that?"

Enthralled by her son, Alice took a few moments to answer. "It'll grow, Frank. He actually already has hair; it's just too light and fine for you to see. Come feel."

He stood there and allowed his wife to guide his hand over his son's hair, captivated by this tiny miracle. The mediwitch bustled back in and sighed. Young parents. They never listened, did they?

"What's his name?" she asked brusquely, but not unkindly.

"Hmmm?" Frank responded. "His name's Neville. Neville Augustus Longbottom."

From the other room, the sounds of raucous merriment echoed as Sirius Black joined the Potters. In this room, though, for a few moments in the midst of a war, there was peace.

…..

About a year later...

"WHERE IS HE?"

Frank blessed the Ministry and its bureaucratic slowness. Had it not been for the constant stonewalling from officious, stupid ministers like Fudge in Recordkeeping, Harry Potter might have already joined them in their cottage. That would be one more life that would fall to Bellatrix's wand.

He regretted being unable to save his family. Bellatrix Lestrange was crazy, true, but she had an excellent grasp of strategy. Somehow she and her cohorts had gotten in under the wards he had placed, and immediately immobilized him and taken his wand. Now she, together with young Bartemius Crouch, were trying to torture the location of Harry Potter from him in an effort to somehow resurrect the Dark Lord.

Blessings to you Ministry, and to you, Dumbledore, for not letting me know. He thought grimly, as pain wracked his body. He could feel his nerves going. Soon he would reach oblivion, as his beloved Alice already had. With his last bit of control, he gave her a smile as the last Crucio he would ever feel hit him. His last memory was of Peter Pettigrew walking into the room…

But Peter, why?...

….

Wormtail was stuck. He had never been very brave; he had relied on his friends to provide courage, and once they had friends and jobs after school, he had no life. No goals. Nothing. He was alone.

Now he was hanging onto whoever would promise him the most security. That had looked like Voldemort, once; he had betrayed James for that security, and it had disappeared. He had taken Bellatrix as the Dark Lord's replacement; she was crazy, but she was better than turning himself in to the Ministry and submitting to the dementors. For her, he betrayed Frank and Alice.

As he scampered around the house, trying to escape the screams of his former friends, he found a crib. Transforming back into human shape, he silently approached it.

There was a baby.

Intinctually, he started to call out to Bella, but hushed. Why should he betray a baby to her? What had the baby done to him?

What had Frank ever done to him?

He squashed that thought. The babe stirred. What was his name? Neville, that was it. Cruel, to give that name to a baby. Neville opened his eyes and saw a stranger, and screwed up his face to scream.

"Somnius," whispered Peter hastily.

Neville's face went slack.

For a few minutes, Peter watched him sleep and was confronted with himself.

This was one life he could save, at no cost to himself. Maybe it would count to his favor.

He turned and quietly shut the door, and began to walk back to his partners in crime. Just in time, though, he heard the Aurors coming and transformed, disappearing quickly from the house.

Alastor Moody entered the nursery next, and picked up his grandnephew. "Come on, Neville." he said gruffly.

The tiny head stirred, then curled into the crook of Moody's arm. They left the house behind, as Frank and Alice's unresponsive bodies were portkeyed to St. Mungo's.

…