Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.
Warning: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.
Author's Note: I've been changing how things are organized on this account. This story was previously posted as part of a chaptered story entitled Shades of the Past despite it being complete in itself. I am posting it now as it should be, with a cover marking its series.
Song Recommendation: "Hallelujah" by Penatonix
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Contradiction Betwixt Worlds
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"Well, it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, and the major lift." – Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah
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Halloween was a night that was celebrated throughout Britannia. Magical children learned the wonders of jack-o-lanterns and feasts at a young age. In some families, those that still practiced the old ways, the day meant more. It was a time for magick, for honoring the dead.
And the adults?
Well, the adults remember a Dark Lord. They remember the terror of white masks and green shapes floating above homes and businesses. They remember the horror of people disappearing and the sorrow of entire families being murdered. They remember the fear of them being next—or their friends, their family.
And they raise a glass of something sure to make them sick the next morning to the baby that destroyed the greatest threat to their way of life: the great and powerful Boy-Who-Lived.
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"Harry Potter," Marlene Thatcher called out. The silence that followed seemed unnatural, too perfect to be true. She let it stretch a moment, then two. Still not looking up from her roster, she repeated the name to the year one class. A pudgy little boy in the middle of the room snickered in a way in which before she had started teaching twenty years ago she would have said a six year old was just not capable. She looked up at the snicker, a frown marring an otherwise kind face.
Marlene said the name a third time, noting that every child was looking around with bewildered expressions. God, it was only the first day of the year and she was already wishing for it to be summer. They couldn't have forgotten this procedure from last year, but inevitably there was always one who did. Oh, well, she'd figure it out by eliminating the rest of the children as possibilities. Paying strict attention now, she finished roll call.
The only child left silent was a thin boy sitting in the back row. His clothes were a bit baggy but in good condition. He had black hair that could have used a visit from a comb and a smudge on his cheek. His wide emerald eyes, while pointed towards the front of the classroom, were blinking rapidly as if he had not been paying attention and had just come back to himself. Either that or he was having trouble seeing the fifteen feet that separated teacher and student, which was unlikely as all year one students were required to have their eyes tested before their enrollment was completed.
"You there," she snapped, pointing at the little boy. The boy froze instantly. He didn't even seem to be breathing. The pudgy boy and another one, this one with pointed features reminiscence of a rat, snickered in that same evil way. Resolutely, she ignored them. They weren't causing any trouble and dealing with their parents was just not worth the effort it would take to shape them into kinder people. "Are you Harry Potter?"
The boy just stared at her. Then she saw his eyes flick toward the pudgy boy for the briefest of moments. Marlene knew this one was a trouble maker. The shifty eyes gave him away just as much as a confession would have. Potter's face twitched as he swallowed, but she was not fooled by his little scaredy-cat impression. She hardened her expression and finally the child spoke.
"Maybe?" he said with a fake amount of hesitation. His little buddies snickered again, causing his eyes to dart to them and back. She had had enough of this little game. It was time to put an end to it.
"From now on, I expect you to answer when your name is called. This little tomfoolery act will not be tolerated in my classroom. Is that understood?" Marlene said the words firmly and without room for argument. The boy looked down at his desk, his hands hidden in his lap. He nodded without saying anything. Not convinced that he was suitably cowed, she continued in a no-nonsense tone, "Well?"
"Yes, ma'am," Potter replied promptly.
Suitably convinced now, she continued on with her lesson plans with only one thought nagging at her: when would the bell ring?
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It was not until the third year after the end of the Blood War that the first story was printed. Harry Potter had just had his fourth birthday the week before The Boy-Who-Lived and the Great Bunny Rescue was published. It quickly became a classic. Fans of the book clamored for more of the same. Beatrix Conway became a household name as the Boy-Who-Lived craze sweep through the whole of Britannia.
The Great Bunny Rescue was but the first of many adventure stories to feature the young Savior. With each one, the adventures grew more daring, ever pushing the edge that was set by The Warlock's Hairy Heart. Eventually there were six steady authors putting out The Boy-Who-Lived adventure books, each with their own personal twist on the boy's looks, viewpoints, and companions. There really was a Boy-Who-Lived for everyone's tastes.
Even the elite Lucius Malfoy was spotted with an excited heir at a book signing of The Boy-Who-Lived and the Waga Waga Werewolf by Mercury Smythe.
Now there were people who raised bubbly glasses of champagne to the moving posters of a striking dark haired boy in a variety of heroic poses. "To Harry Potter," they'd say, "the Boy-Who-Lived!"
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"You know," Marjorie Dursley announced after swallowing her mouthful of pan fried chicken and gesturing wildly with the leg while Ripper watched every move. Harry both loved and hated Aunt Marge's visits. He hated them because Aunt Marge did absolutely nothing to hide her dislike of him, but whenever she was there, he got to eat at the table with the rest of the Dursleys, and even got a full plate! The eight year old didn't do more than glance at the female version of his Uncle Vernon as he struggled to devour all of the rich food placed before him, focusing more on the broccoli and cauliflower florets with the knowledge that they'd line his stomach better. Aunt Marge was deep in her cups now anyway. "You should be canonized, Vernon, my dear."
"Oh?"
"If I had a bitch leave such a mangy pup as the boy," she answered as Harry cottoned onto the topic, "I'd have drowned it. Such a ghastly way to die, as well." Harry's ears perked up and he focused all his attention on the ruddy-faced woman, half eaten meal forgotten. Harry put down his fork and pushed his glasses up his nose. Aunt Marge had been hinting for a year now about how his parents died, which was exactly half of what Harry knew about them. Aunt Petunia had always cuffed him if he asked for more. Beady blue eyes cut to him knowingly. Harry knew he was being played. Dudley would often give him similar looks before getting him in trouble at school. His rabid curiosity would not let him give into the foreboding feeling growing in his suddenly queasy stomach.
"We don't talk about it," Aunt Petunia put in waspishly. It had certainly stopped Aunt Marge in the past. The rotund woman took another large bite of chicken, chewing noisily as grease glistened on the first of her three chins. "Especially at the dinner table."
"The boy deserves to know exactly how lucky he was," Aunt Marge argued. Uncle Vernon nodded in agreement. Aunt Petunia stabbed her chicken breast savagely with her fork, clearly conceding the battle. "The wreck was horrific, true—it would have to be to leave so little to be buried, wouldn't it?"
"My parents died in a wreck?"
Harry held his breath after the question dared to slip out. He was frozen, hoping no one would notice his fierce desire to know more, to simply know. He was breaking Rule One of the Dursley home, but he didn't care. From the smirk on Aunt Marge's face, his question was just the next line of the little script she had written for this scene.
"Oh, yes—bloody useless blighters died in a most gory fashion. God spared you, not that you are any more useful than your stupid parents." Bits of chicken flew out of her mouth as she spoke. She continued, her eager eyes watching him for any sign of tears, "Where did you think you got that ugly scar on your forehead? Walking into a coffee table? No, you were disfigured by your own parents' foolish recklessness. Now my dear baby brother is stuck with your feckless hide. You are too kind, Vernon, much too kind."
"I know," Uncle Vernon agreed. Harry felt small and suddenly longed for the dark silence of his cupboard. He looked down at his plate. Conversation moved on to the Dursleys' plans for tomorrow, not that Harry cared. Christmas was a time for family and for church. He would be let out of his cupboard, if he was lucky, but that was about all the kindness he was expecting to receive. "Boy, go to your room."
Numb from the new information, Harry immediately obeyed. He suddenly wasn't hungry anyway.
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The Boy-Who-Lived Fan Club started five years after You-Know-Who's defeat. A dedicated woman Jane Wiggs was the founder. The wizards and witches of Britannia rejoiced at the announcing article in the Daily Prophet. Finally, there was somewhere they could send their grateful letters and gifts.
And for the price of three sickles, they could receive a copy of the monthly newsletter that the organization published.
It had interesting articles about various things such as favorite things of the Savior or 'his' responses to various news highlights for the month. It also held the latest sighting information. If some of those locations made a certain well-known warlock a tad anxious, it did not show.
As the fan club grew, Jane Wiggs was forced to move out of her tiny London flat into a tidy cottage located in the famous Godric's Hollow. The cottage was paid for with the profits of the fan club. On the night of her housewarming party, she led a toast to the source of her success.
"To the Vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Named," she announced, "to the Boy-Who-Lived!"
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Molly Weasley did not recognize him, not at first. No, at first it was only a vague feeling of having seen him before when one cannot quite place where. She had only met the Potters once before their tragic end—oh, the boy had just turned a year when her brothers had invited her children to the birthday party. But one does not forget James Potter very easily, and Lily Potter was just as fetching.
The boy looked very much like his parents…except in small ways that broke Molly the Mother's heart.
It wasn't the clothes that were obviously secondhand. Sometimes, that was all people could offer and there was no shame in that. The clothes were still in good repair, if a little big on the boy's small frame.
Even the small frame wasn't necessarily an issue. Her William had been of slight frame when he started Hogwarts as well, not reaching the growth spurt until the summer between his four and fifth year. True, he didn't look quite as frail as this boy did—as if a flap of a snitch's wings would blow him away—but maybe he had inherited that from his mother. Merlin knows that muggle blood could sometimes do that, bless their hearts.
No, what caught her attention and made her wary was the politeness.
Little boys just weren't polite like that—even little boys on their best behavior messed up. Merlin knows that she had enough experience with them to know. Little boys did not have hollows around their eyes and refused to meet people's eyes. They didn't tense from pats on the back. They just didn't. Little boys were incredibly resilient. They were rough and tended to tumble about like puppies. They didn't give small smiles that didn't reach their eyes and hastily thank people for the smallest kindness.
Then the twins had announced who the boy was and Molly's world had shifted.
She had read almost every Boy-Who-Lived Adventure book. Her Ginevra loved them, after all. The description given there was very apt. But it failed to capture the true essence that was Harry Potter.
And in that moment, Molly realized that was the key difference between books and reality. She was never stupid. She could deduce many things from the information she was given, but had no way of knowing if she was right or not.
For the sake of the muggles who raised the Boy-Who-Lived, she hoped that the idea that Harry Potter's politeness was beaten into him was false. Because, if it wasn't…
She'd destroy them.
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The End of the Past
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