Disclaimer: I do not own the Potterverse (I am working on a plan for world domination though so…)
Dean Thomas never knew his father. He knew of his father, he'd seen pictures. Sometimes he hated his father, when he remembered his mother's crying late at night when he was little, or when her Ethiopian friends would look at her with pity, knowing her husband had left her. The crying had stopped years ago, but the pity continued even after she'd remarried, had several more children and opened a fairly successful clothing store. Sometimes he hated his father, but most of the time he just wondered what had happened. He had always been confused about why his mother didn't seem to harbour any resentment toward him. She used to tell him stories about his father. She'd come to London alone when she was 20, she spoke next to no English and had no education to speak of. Then she'd met a charming man who spoke Amharinja passably.
Declan Thomas was born and raised in London but spoke five foreign languages fluently. He seemed, by all accounts, to be the most polite person anyone had ever met. Mrs. Abdo down the street would still insist on telling all her friends loudly how nice and polite Declan had been when Dean helped her with her groceries every Tuesday afternoon. Mrs. Abdo was an old woman who meant well, Dean was sure, but who sometimes made some off colour remarks that rubbed people the wrong way. Dean had gotten used to her rambling at an early age and only listened enough to give the impression of polite interest, but his mother had been quite upset about some of Mrs. Adbo's comments concerning his father. His father, Dean had been told, was not Ethiopian. His parents moved to London shortly before his birth, from Kenya. This, according to Mrs. Abdo, was clearly the reason he had left. "They like to run, Kenyans, you see, nice, Ethiopian boys don't do that." Dean could never quite understand why the old woman would sing his praises if he was apparently so unreliable.
Dean Thomas never knew his father, he only knew that he was very polite. It seemed to be the only thing anyone had to say about his father. He always opened doors for ladies, smiled and greeted everyone he knew, remembered the names of everyone he'd met, along with their second cousin and fourth grade teacher, and always stopped to inquire about their health and happiness. Declan Thomas had been presumed dead by most of his acquaintances when he'd missed two consecutive dinners he'd promised to go to, because he simply wasn't rude enough to just not go. Mrs. Abdo was the only one who seemed to believe at all that the man could have left of his own free will. Dean knew he had. His mother had told him his father took some of his clothes and a locked box she'd never known the contents of, and he'd left a note. His mother had never read the note, at the time she didn't know how to and later she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. She always said "I know he had a good reason, that's all I need". Dean found out when he started school that his mother had never told anyone she was illiterate.
His mother never did learn to speak proper English. Her vocabulary was limited to words she needed in her store and her grammar was flawed at best. In the neighbourhood Dean grew up it didn't really matter if you knew English, there were shops that catered to anything you might need whether you spoke Swahili, Hindi or Amharinja. As for work, all the adults he knew growing up were shop owners, janitorial staff or taxi drivers. When they came in contact with English speaking people they needed a very limited and very predictable set of phrases. Dean's mother used to take him out to the park at least an hour away from their home in hopes of him meeting English children so he could learn to speak like them so he could do well in school. By the age of ten he spoke English as well as any child his age and wrote better than most of them. He had been embarrassed at first, when his teacher asked him to get notes signed by his mother and he had to explain she couldn't read the note, much less sign it. By second grade he'd learned to write in a manner that could pass for an adult and by fourth he could forge a signature almost perfectly.
As a child it had never seemed strange, but as Dean grew older he began to wonder how so much of his life was affected by a man he couldn't even remember. Declan Thomas had managed to haunt Dean all his life. It seemed anything he did, or didn't do, was followed closely by the comment 'Declan always...' Even his step father, who had not come to London until after Declan had left, liked to use him as a good example. 'Declan knew five languages, you can learn Amharinja and Qafár af' or 'Dean's father could, and he wasn't even Habesha'. Dean's younger siblings came to despise Declan, simply for being the shining example that meant they would never be the best. Dean was spurred on by it. He took everything he knew about his father and strove to do it better. His father was a fast runner, Dean was the star of his track team. His father knew six languages, Dean was determined to speak seven. His father was polite, Dean would be politer.
Dean's mother and stepfather were not in love, they never had been, but they were happy. They loved their children very much and were perfectly content in their lives. His step father, Dawit, had always treated Dean exactly as he had his own children, he had been the one to take Dean to his first football game at Upton Park, he had been the one that made sure Dean always had access to the books he needed and he had been the one that brought home paints and canvases with small tares from one of the buildings he cleaned when they didn't want them.
Dean never felt he needed his biological father, because he had a father. When he had got his Hogwarts letter it was Dawit that had congratulated him and immediately followed the strict older woman's directions to go get his school supplies. When he got to Ollivander's the old man had immediately said "Ah, young mister Thomas, just like your father, I remember selling him his first wand, and his subsequent five, I do hope you'll be more careful." Dean had sent Dawit a confused look but refrained from commenting. They had asked his mother when they got home, she had no idea, but she handed Dean the letter from his father. He found out his father had been in a war, he had been a wizard, and he had loved his wife and son. It was a simple letter, saying his goodbyes and stating his reasons for leaving. Dean didn't tell his mother what was in the letter and put it back in her dresser to wait until she was ready to read it.
As it turned out Declan had left Dean and his mother a small amount of money. It wasn't much, but it would get Dean through Hogwarts and help with school for his siblings. They returned to the intimidating white marble building in Diagon Alley to ask the goblins. He greeted the goblin with a traditional respectful phrase he had managed to convince a tall man with a long, vividly red ponytail to teach him the previous day. The goblin raised a thin, wrinkly eyebrow at him but seemed far more congenial than the other one they had spoken to so Dean decided he had probably made himself understood. Dawit patted him on the back and smiled proudly. Claiming an inheritance was relatively simple, he provided proof of identity in the form of a drop of blood (something they assured him was unnecessary if he brought his key), and they took him down to his vault. The vault contained three rather sizeable piles of coins, a bookshelf, and a trunk with the initials D.T. engraved on it. They returned the trunk they had bought the day before and Dawit put the money into Dean's vault.
When Dean went to Hogwarts he said both his parents were muggles, not because he was disowning the father that had abandoned him, he understood his reasons and had come to terms with his absence long ago, but because the father he had always known was muggle and he loved him. Dawit had always claimed Dean as his own, and Dean returned the favour. He had respect for his birthfather, he harboured no ill feelings toward him, but he would never know him. The man would have been a great father, and Dean would have loved him, he was sure, but he was gone, and he had never had time to become a father. Biology didn't make a family. Dean may have a several generations of magical blood in his genes, but he would always be a muggleborn in any way that counted.
I'm happy with this, it's not what I thought it was going to be but I like it.