This will be a vastly expanded universe, more people, more places, a huge amount of description, and a heavy in-depth look at the world of HP, most of which may come from my own imagination (though a lot of it will be 'stolen' from your ideas and those of other Fan Fiction authors. Almost all that you don't recognise is AU. I will also state that this follows shifting point of views, sometimes you see everything through the eyes of Harry, sometimes another Hogwarts student. Mostly it will just be an unspecified point of view. I ended up making an OC the point of view character for the first chapter, don't know why but it works. Lastly, I don't own Harry Potter, somebody else does, if I did, would this really be on Fanfiction?
Prologue
"The Wizarding World is vast, and with each passing year, harder to hide, we are becoming paranoid, delusional and more and more introverted. If we are not careful, we may never able to connect with the Muggle world." Richard Chianale, a leading politician, proclaimed this before the house of the Department of Magic yesterday. Chianale, known for his intensely radical views, is one of many advocates for the adoption of a more Muggle culture and even for the exposure of the wizarding world to the Muggle one.
Chapter One
The unusual newspaper, made of parchment, with queer moving pictures and a Latin sounding name, was dumped into a bulky black bin on a grey, concrete, chewing gum splattered road by an even more eccentric looking man; on one foggy Halloween. He was tall and greying, with carefully groomed shoulder length hair. He had a finely chiselled face, slightly wrinkled around the eyes, a strong nose, thin lips and small, dark eyes. He had an aura of inquisitive seriousness at odds with his fantastical costume. Shimmering burgundy velvet three piece suit with black lapels and a matching bow-tie. This was topped off by velvet slippers with gold embroidery. Over this he wore a maroon wool overcoat, slung gracefully over his shoulders. He carried a cane with a fine, intricately carved handle, at odds with the shabby, dishevelled wood beneath.
This man did not seem to belong to this world, the world of the mundane and the ordinary. He was special, unique. He was one of those wonderful people who seemed to have been hand-carved, a one-off creation amongst the assembly line carbon-copies that move dimly through life. He did not move dimly, he drifted quickly, oozing chic and casual elegance. To the average person he was an arresting sight, eyes watching him drift on, as they always do when the beautiful and glamorous move in the realm of the ordinary. And then he was suddenly gone, vanished into thin air near a grim pub or shop that nobody ever realised was there. He was easily forgotten as a person, he seemed so far above those who saw him, that they only remembered the sight, unusual, whimsical, splendid, wandering past them as they went on with their repetitive, stressful lives.
The small shop he had vanished around was actually the entrance to Trumbauer Street, which doesn't appear on any normal map and, if you asked a person in the street, they would be horribly, dreadfully confused and tell you they don't know where it is. And they would walk onwards and away from you. Unless you were very lucky.
For Trumbauer Street is part of a hidden area of London. Hidden in plain sight, behind small, dingy shops and cramped shabby pubs shut away from the rest of the world, the London of the Wizarding World. If one was to drift into the shop, with dirty windows and a 'closed' sign they would suddenly find themselves in a large and packed café, bursting with life and vitality. It is grand and ornate, in a shabby, delicate way, the luxurious wallpaper peeling in places the ornate plaster ceiling faded and cracked in places, the chairs and tables wearing that delicious lived-in look, that often shows itself in sagging chair cushions, scratches and marks and holes in the upholstery. There are five pert waitresses, who, in the midst of squabbling with themselves, the customers and the owners, may condone to take your order, there is one fiercely witty and sharp woman behind the counter, woe-be-tide you get on her bad side, there is a gallery on which a collection of regular customers amass in their own, specially chosen spots each day to drink tea and coffee, along with the occasional cake. And the tea trays float, the paintings talk and move, and nobody ever finds any of this out of the ordinary here.
The man who had drifted in here did not linger, at this time it was nearly silent anyway; he drifted on outwards, nodding here, bowing there, gracefully, elegantly, to those few who remained. For spots like these are just the portals, doorways to the world of magic. Trumbauer Street is one of the newest additions to the Wizarding London, built when Diagon Alley and Merlin Avenue were becoming too overcrowded. It is a long, wide road, bordered on either side by large, slightly cumbersome shops, in a very eclectic mix of styles, from the tall, wide, Gothic building housing the flagship store for Flourish and Blotts and its offices, to the Black Building, a stark, columned grey stone building housing the offices of many a notable Wizarding company. The man drifted past here, down to Harrowyck Court, the shabby, rambling home of Gryffindors, surrounding the Harrowyck Green, a small embattled forest that continues to survive in urban London to this day.
The man was Edgar Angelotti, the awkward compromise of a marriage between the fun-loving Angelotti's and the serious Asperhands, whose blood never mixes well. The Angelotti's had always been associated with good living and the high life, never bothering to dabble with work or politics, so it had come as a complete surprise and to a certain extent, shock, when Edgar, then a twenty-seven year old party boy Ravenclaw, with short golden-blonde hair and soft handsome features, had announced his intention to have a career. In education. Of all things for an Angelotti to pursue. Of course they all had perfect grades, but they never used them. Why should they? They were good looking, had vaults bursting with gold, endless charm and oozed style and elegance, what need of careers and education had they. But Edgar had held firm and they found him a job teaching transfiguration at the London School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, off Trumbauer Street. He eventually became headmaster.
He lived in one of the finest flats that Harrowyck had to offer. On the sixth floor of a building in weathered gold stone. The flat was sumptuous and took up far more space than logic would dictate. The drawing room was huge and grand, tapestries beneath beautiful paintings lining the walls, and dominated by a marble chimneypiece rising from floor to ceiling. Edgar, walking in that evening to sink into one of the ornate brocade armchairs, was surprised by the sight of Dumbledore reclining by a roaring fire, book in hand and tea by his side.
"Edgar, Voldemort is no more." Dumbledore had the ability to be the master of whatever time, place and situation he found himself in. Most could not tell how he did it, but Edgar knew exactly how. The careful wordings he used, the faint pulling of strings that he could do to manipulate everything around him, with just a twitch upon the thread. Yet he rarely used this ability without need, for it had had dire consequences in the past.
"The prophecy fulfilled Albus?" Edgar dropped his overcoat from his shoulders to drape over the sofa and fell back on it.
"No. He is not quite destroyed, but he has marked the Potter boy as his equal."
"I hope that does not mean…" Edgar looked at Dumbledore hopefully, the Dark Lord did not spare those that stood in his path.
"Remus is organising the funeral, I must leave very soon, I've come direct from the ministers and must go see so many people in the course of the next twenty-four hours."
"What of the Potter boy?"
"Hagrid has been sent to collect him. He will be at the Hogwarts infirmary until tomorrow evening, then he will be taken to his aunt."
"Not the muggle?"
"Unfortunately so."
"I've heard her talked about, at Lily's parties before they went into hiding." He said 'Lily's parties' with a certain level of pride and praise, the memory of the brilliant affairs Lily had thrown as a shining example of the flaunting resistance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named which the Potters and their friends had shown.
"I wish that I could place him somewhere else, anywhere else but with Petunia and her husband. They are almost as ignorant and prejudiced as those fanatical blood-purists we have been fighting so long."
"Why does Petunia hate magic so much Albus?"
"Jealousy and fear. When Lily was accepted into Hogwarts she wrote to ask to study there. She had to be rejected."
"And she choose to hate magic because it excluded her."
"Precisely. And so she excluded Lily and turned away from magic. I am sure she is not the only one that did so." Dumbledore rose to leave and Edgar rose with him.
"Albus, my sincerest condolences, they were far too young. It is always the innocent who suffer."
"Do not spare your condolences to me Edgar, give your love to those who need it most."
For the short time that they had lived without the need to hide Edgar and the Potters were part of the same set. Wild, chaotic party mad people. A loose collective of intensely liberal strays, all vehemently opposed to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and showing this through raucous entertainment booming across Harrowyck Court. At the centre of this collective had been the Potters and Sirius Black, dominating with ever louder, rowdier and more excessive parties, welcome to all. Some said Sirius and James had gone into competition to see who could throw the most amazing party, who could make the biggest scandal in the Prophet and Witch Weekly, who could get the most deliciously, ragingly drunk. James had won for a while, he was living in sin with a muggleborn (and one with such vivid hair too) but Sirius beat him very soon; different witches, and sometimes wizards, he was very impartial that way, could be seen tumbling out of his building every week. He rarely held onto a partner for longer. If someone did last for two or more weeks James and Lily would throw the most outrageous parties in his indignant honour.
But the war had been escalating all around them and the glittering members of this set began to quietly disappear. It all crashed around them when Lily and James went into hiding. The sight of them crossing the Harrowyck Green, Lily with fiery hair and a brilliantly vivid red cocktail dress, James in a rumpled suit, red silk shirt, gold tie and dragonhide boots, hair artfully messy, was gone. They vanished, Sirius, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew drifting with them into the void they had left. Sirius laid off lovers slowly. The partygoers lost their steam. They poured their energies into secret organisations like The Order of the Phoenix, they all fought Voldemort, and so many fell.
Somehow, the thing that the powerful entities of the Wizarding World thought was best was to form committees. Endless committees. Committees to reorganise the Ministry. Committees to help the families who had been left behind. Committees to rebuild places that had been destroyed. Committees to decide who would be sentenced and who would walk free. Committees to count the survivors. Committees to bury the dead. Edgar sat on all the most powerful or important wizarding committees. Those who ministered over the education of the Wizarding World were vital in its rebuilding. Dumbledore sat on so many committees that people were sure he never had time to do anything.
Edgar spent many of his days at Godric's, the Gryffindor's club. It was a good place, always the best for a drink or a party, and there was always a Weasley somewhere to laugh and joke with you. If you wanted conversation you would go to one of the Ravenclaw clubs and the Mulligan, Hufflepuff's club, had the best food and of course the Slytherin clubs had the most prestige, but you'd never get in. The Potter family has been banned for centuries.
Godric's, the Gryffindor's club. Loud, riotous, damaged and shabby, always the first with new innovations, such as women members a good eight hundred years ago, stood in its own building in Harrowyck Court, a wide sturdy building with cracked stone, awkward wooden windows, peeling paint and a vast dark front door with a tarnished lion knocker. Harrowyck had long grown beyond the three floors of Godric's, becoming a sprawling mess of seven or more floored flats and townhouses, arches and bridges reaching across courtyards five floors up, odd conservatories and extensions jutting out over the square. On the roof of Godric's was a garden of sorts, shadowed by the Kettleburn's Victorian red brick house, built into a bridge that arched over Godric's and the Gallivan's rooftop garden where trees grew and branched around their neighbours flats and houses. The roots and vines spreading into the stone and supporting the Kettleburn's conservatory.
Edgar would be there for a committee meetings, as he was that day. Dumbledore had called this one of course, to discuss the future of the Potter boy. This was the committee that gathered the most interest, people being what they were. It had been this committee that people had vied to be on. This one that the powerful would not miss. To be able to say you helped decide the fate of 'The Boy Who Lived', would bolster the career of any witch and wizard. Yet so few had any idea where he should really go. Most would happily leave him where he was, than accept responsibility for sending him to the wrong place. Why shouldn't they, the boy's welfare didn't matter so much until he got to Hogwarts. If he was healthy and had a roof over his head and clothes over his back the powerful of the Wizarding World would be content.
Those who had got on the committee were the most important in the Wizarding World. And they would all be there, the editor of the Prophet, the Hospital Director at St. Mungo's, most of the Hogwarts faculty, its board of governors, well those not in hiding. Even Minister Bagnold, that stern Ravenclaw who wore severe suits and smoked a cigar, would be there, battling for a cause. She loved causes and speeches did the minister. They were in the committee room at Godric's, which was seldom used. Gryffindor's mostly rush headlong into action, and discuss what they did wrong later. The committee room was large, long and burgundy, with a dreadful carpet and a shoddy ceiling. Along a vast table running the length of the room were the Wizarding World's most powerful and influential members, Dumbledore at the head.
"Edgar, please have a seat. Would you like tea?" Dumbledore, in vivid robes, with a vast white beard and the infamous twinkling eyes was relaxing in a leather chair, presiding over a tea tray.
"Lemon." Edgar said, draping his coat over the back of a chair, flashing a brilliant smile. That was the Angelotti's all over, style, sophistication and witty charm. Dumbledore flicked his hand and the teapot floated up and poured into an empty cup while a pair of tongs dropped a slice of lemon in.
"Thank you." Edgar said warmly, the cup and saucer floating into his outstretched hand. Bagnold smiled warmly at him over her tea, smoke drifting from the end of her cigar.
"Nearly everyone's here." She announced gruffly, in her usual barking manner. "There are two main suggestions as to where the Potter boy will be taken. Either he is to be placed with his remaining maternal family, or a Wizarding family will be found to take him in. Albus has already made strong arguments for his placement with his Aunt, Lily Potter's sister, who is a Muggle. Ah Bernard." Bernard Simpson, the lean, sandy haired Director of St. Mungo's, with a crooked nose and a limp, slumped down in one of the remaining empty leather chairs clustered around the great table and accepted tea, milk, no sugar, with no fuss and mild agitation.
"Minister, ladies and gentlemen." There was a murmur of greetings and Bagnold continued with her oration.
"Albus has stated that Lily Potter's willing sacrifice has placed a protection over the boy, one that is only ensured by his residing in the same home as someone of his mother's blood, Lily's sister," Bagnold consulted her papers, "Petunia Dursley of No. Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey being the one who closest fits the bill and will offer the greatest protection. Questions?" Griselda Marchbanks sat up straight.
"While I trust Albus' judgement as much as the next man, I've always found it exceptionally sound, surely it would be best for him to remain in the Wizarding World," many assented, Edgar merely sipped his tea casually, rubbing one of his rings as he did so. "Minerva tells me these are dreadful Muggles by any standards." Bagnold looked expectantly at Dumbledore and grunted, "Well, Albus?" Dumbledore unlaced his long fingers, a small twinkle in his eyes, he wandered down the table talking slowly.
"If the boy were to grow up in the Wizarding world he would probably be idolised by whichever family has care of him, spoiling him and feeding him exaggerated tales of his talents." He came to a halt by Barnabus Cuffe, the Editor of the Prophet, white haired and portly who was sat by the biscuit jar, which Albus inspected as he, almost absentmindedly, continued to explain, "After all, everyone in our world will know exactly who he is and his story, it is better that he grow up far away from all of that."
"Why wasn't he placed with his Godfather Albus?" Edgar asked sartorially, over his tea. Barty Crouch glanced up from mountains of paperwork, talking curtly and severely, without a hint of familiarity in his voice, which had a monotonous quality beneath the curt tone.
"Haven't you heard Edgar? He was the Potter's Secret-Keeper, the one who betrayed them to He Who Must Not Be Named. Peter Pettigrew chased him down yesterday and he blasted both Pettigrew and twelve Muggles to death. He is in Azkaban now."
"I would look into that if I were you." Edgar told him, with a sideways glance and a sip of his tea.
An excellent case was made for Harry's placement in the Wizarding World, but a suitable family could not be found. Even Remus Lupin was suggested, but quickly removed from the list of candidates. Eventually, due to a complete lack of other choices the committee chose to leave him with his Aunt, away from the Wizarding World, although even Dumbledore said he would have preferred him somewhere else. So Harry, the defeater of the Dark Lord, a mere one-year old remained living with his Aunt and Uncle till such time that he received his Hogwarts letter.
Bagnold called after Edgar as he was leaving the committee room, her secretary haphazardly scooping up paperwork behind her. Edgar kept an eye fixed on the inexperienced Wizard trying to balance a foot of paper and files in his arms when a simple levitation charm would suffice.
"I'm attending your victory dinner tomorrow Angelotti."
"Oh good, parties are always better with you, and at least you knew most of the Order. Almost all who really did are gone. I heard about Frank and Alice."
"I don't know quite what was worse, their torture or the way Augusta practically proclaimed it to me."
"She was always so proud of him. I worry she will start to forget Frank as who he was and create a shrine to the Hero he became."
"Perhaps after what we've been through its better that way. The memory of a fallen hero is easier to cherish and keep a firm hold of than that of a real person. They slip away so easily."
It would be the funerals Edgar attended that undid him, funerals of the old and the young. Funerals of the brave and the kind, of those with charm, or wit, or talent, with honour and sense. Funerals of Gryffindors, of Hufflepuffs, of Ravenclaws and those few Slytherins that defied all convention and fought the Dark Lord. And amidst the Funerals parties. All those who survived threw them. There was a sort of madness in each one. The dignified victory dinners that Edgar's mother's friends threw, in stately dining rooms, long speeches to the dead and to the living. The amazing spectacles that the old friends of Lily and James once again threw themselves headlong into. The quiet family parties, where they ate feasts on kitchen tables and wore party hats. The official balls to mark anniversaries held at the Ministry. They mourned and celebrated all at once. They revelled in what they had gained and clung desperately to what they had lost.
The Potter's funeral was held halfway through November, the day after the first heavy snowfall. Small patches of green could be found in the glittering white expanse of the graveyard at Godric's Hollow. It had been organised by Remus Lupin, the last of James and Lily's best friends. It was as if half the Wizards and Witches of Britain had turned up to pay their respects, huddled together in black. They had somehow gotten hold of the Church, where Remus and the Order of the Phoenix made great speeches. He had carried the coffin out of the church, such a dignified figure, the scars on his face redder than ever in the freezing cold. He broke down as they lowered the coffins in, one by one, side by side. He fell to his knees and slumped by the grave. Frank and Alice were the ones who picked him back up. There was so much crying that day, but he never really cried. He was beyond crying, the pain and grief in him were of unimaginable depths. Who knew what would happen to a young man who had lost everything.
At the last, as they drifted out of the graveyard and to the wake, Remus, Frank and Alice drifting very far behind, they thought they saw one more figure. She was blonde and had a vague resemblance to Lily's fiery beauty. She was dressed in a very muggle outfit, black wool coat and dress, pearls, smart shoes. She looked bitterly, almost hatefully at James' coffin and knelt at Lily's side.
"I'm sorry my love, but I will protect him, even if he is like you were, I'm so sorry my love."