Harry Potter and the Really Old Sorcerer's Shiny Red Rock

Chapter One: The Boy Who (Just Barely) Lived

I read fanfiction and like to know what I'm getting into before I invest a lot of time in reading, so I'm not disappointed. I plan on working through Harry's entire seven years, so this fic will take a lot of time if you're willing to stick with me. The first chapter is followed by everything you need to know before you decide to stick with this story so please read the A. N. at the end!

Disclaimer: This is going to be a long haul, so I'm going to make it very clear from the start that I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do not own the characters or the original plots. I am using the characters and many situations as a baseline to create a fanfiction story because I love the Harry Potter world. I am not making any money or other benefit from the writing and sharing of this story other than the happiness I get from reviews and readers. I have inserted many of my own ideas, but since many people in the same fandom have similar head canon, I am sorry for any resemblance to the works of anyone else. In short:

I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fanfiction made to resemble the original. I am making no profit from writing or sharing this.

All of the shit in Mr and Mrs Dursley's world hit the fan on the first dreary, normal Tuesday of September. Honestly, if you had told them the night before everything that was going to go down, they might have slapped you…. and they definitely would have laughed (well, maybe. They might be a little too uptight for that, but one never knows…. perhaps maniacal, panicked laughter?). Mr Dursley hummed off-key (how do you even do that? He must be an awful singer) as he put on the ugliest maroon and vomit-green tie ever. Over a canary-yellow shirt, no less, if he weren't looking in the mirror to tie the damn tie (which he had to do, otherwise he wouldn't be able to manage it), it would be tempting to say he looked that awful because he didn't own a mirror. Which he does, obviously…. and yet his clothes are still, well…. you get the picture.

Anyways, meanwhile Mrs Dursley was trying to get their kicking and hollering toddler into his highchair. The pair of wonderfully inane lovebirds had managed to produce (in a rare bout of friendliness, because imaging repetitive, ummm…. coupling? between these two kind of hurts) a bouncing (literally, he has enough blubber to probably bounce) blond bundle of…. joy. They called their son Dudley (if that is really his name, you might never know, but it's what they called him anyways—why? Who knows…. it's a hideous name, but to each his own and in their opinion—and no one else's, rest assured; are you kidding, the neighbours could see how misbehaved he was—there was no finer boy anywhere.

). The tot, apparently in a moment of brilliance belying his slow appearance, was the only one who noticed the large tawny owl who fluttered by the window and he was distracted enough that his mother finally managed to wrangle him into the chair.

Since Mr Dursley worked as an average middleman at the firm known as Grunnings, that sold drills, he had to leave for work soon. (Wow, right? What a catch!) Anyways, besides being stuck in a job that wouldn't lead him anywhere great, he was also a rather heavy-set, balding man (though he took a disproportionate pride in his large moustache. Hmmm, making up for something, perhaps?) with almost no neck and pudgy little hands.

Therefore, he picked up his briefcase, gave his wife the cursory peck-on-the-cheek goodbye (again, do we really want to imagine anything more?) and tried to kiss his wayward son (though he missed, because you all know he's not the most coordinated walrus and Dudley was having a fit anyways, so he wasn't even going for a target that was sitting still). As the brat threw his breakfast at the nearest wall, Mr Dursley ducked out of the way, hitting his head on the fridge as he swerved; with only a fleck or two of the mush making it onto his light shirt unnoticed.

His darling of a trophy wife—who had nearly twice the normal amount of neck—honestly if she had breast implants she'd be a real-life Barbie (minus the pretty face, because she also had squinty eyes, horsey teeth and a rather large forehead). Gasped and he thought she might come running over to comfort him, but her indignance was due only to the fact that she'd broken a nail. So he left the kitchen, getting into his car and preparing to back out of number four's drive.

It was only on the corner of their street that he noticed the first sign of something out of the ordinary. There was a grey and black cat sitting on the boulevard reading a map. Doing a double take, he stomped on the brakes jerkily and stuck his head out the window to look again. Yes, there was the cat, now standing on the corner of the street, turned towards him, but there was no map in sight. He shook his head. What was he thinking? Cats can't read! It must have just been a trick of the light, yes, that's it. The light reflecting off his big, shiny new car (still say he's compensating at this point) just made him think he saw things that weren't really there. Or maybe he'd hit his head harder than he thought. Maybe he should get a CAT scan later (if he had a better sense of humour, it might even have occurred to him that that irony was vaguely amusing. However, the only thing that outweighed his bulk was his dullness). Did his healthcare even cover that? Probably not. Still, he frowned and contemplated the creature. It stared back and if possible, gave him a stern look. He shook his head again. As he drove around the corner and down the road, he continued to watch the cat in the rear-view. As much as he wanted to ignore anything odd, it was almost a compulsion. The cat was now reading the street sign that said, 'Privet Drive.'

No, dammit! He cursed in his head as he jigged his foot over the brake pedal again. Not reading, cats don't read signs or maps. The cat was only looking at the sign, he reassured himself. He went back to thinking about his mundane job. He was hoping to get a large order of drills today that might even land him the promotion he'd been after for the last five years (yeah right, good luck with that one, slick).

Once he hit the awfully confusing (for small, slow minds, anyhow) roads of downtown London, however, drills were the last thing on his mind. Sitting in the usual morning traffic jam, minding his own other than the occasional honk and traffic finger to the other drivers in his way, he couldn't help but notice there were a lot of funny looking birds about. He tried to wave them away from his car (after all, he'd just had it washed…. again).

Now, though the Dursleys had everything that they ever wanted (at least, that's what they'll tell you; Mr Dursley perhaps a mite more convincingly than his wife), they also had a —gasp!—dirty little secret. Well, one dirty little secret and one silly, inconsequential (and kept for an irrational fear) secret. And the strange birds? Well—owls if Vernon had to guess, they reminded him far too much of his in-laws for comfort. He avoided looking out the windows for the rest of the drive (though that made him get into almost five accidents, no less—and the trivialities of his job were driven from his mind again).

Just past downtown, Mr Dursley was finally nearing the industrial park where the company he worked for was located. As he pulled up to a commercial centre to pick up his boss's dry-cleaning (he was a suck up like that even though he pretended he was above such menial tasks), he noticed several strangely dressed people milling around. People who were wearing cloaks, of all things! And their hats…. Never, in all his years, had he seen such offensive hats before. He and his wife (though quite the opposite) thought themselves to be very tolerant, but this was going too far. Seriously, the get-ups you saw on teenagers these days; it was like they all went to the build-an-odd-getup factory! Mr Dursley's beady, roaming little eyes fell on a huddle of the weirdoes who were standing near the entrance to a warehouse complex. The balding blond was quite offended by what he saw. They were whispering excitedly together and many of the weirdoes weren't even young! That man, the one right there, had to be at least older than Mr Dursley himself was, and, and…. he looked like Robin hood with that hat (nod to McGonagall's style of hat, yeah! And don't even start about how Dursley knows a classic like Robin Hood) The nerve of that man! It was utterly disrespectful, if Mr Dursley did think so himself. Then he realized that, no, it was probably just some ridiculous stunt on the weirdoes part, probably to collect money from honest, hard-working men like himself for some obscure cause.

He snorted. Yes, that was it. And they wouldn't be getting their grubby; greedy little paws on his money today. He mad a rude gesture at the huddle as he re-entered his vehicle with the dry-cleaning and drove off. It was only a few minutes later that he pulled up to the Grunnings car park (where he still didn't have his own marked space, so he tried to fit his car into the small space on the end). His little mind was back on drills. Until….

"Watch it," he grunted, shoving at the man he'd stumbled into at the end of the parking lot.

The man, a tiny old thing, tripped (over a magenta coloured cloak—Dursley had had it up to here with these people and really? If they had to dress lie idiots, did it have to be in such an eyesore of a colour as magenta?) and fell. It took a few moments (of not helping him up, obviously, he should have paid more attention to where he was going) before Mr Dursley even realised (big surprise, what with his brains and all) that the little man was carrying a toad. Moreover, he didn't seem in the least upset at having been knocked (his own fault, of course) to the ground. Quite the opposite, in fact, Dursley wondered, as the man's face broke into a huge grin and began speaking in such a high-pitched voice that passers-by began to stare.

"Nothing could upset me today, my dear Muggle! It is a happy, joyous day!"

The old man then proceeded to hug Mr Dursley around the middle (to hug him, the nerve!) and then trundle off. (There was a sticky patch of toad sludge underneath the pocket of his button-up; however, he didn't notice—he was too preoccupied trying to sort out the interaction in his fuzzy head.) It took a while for Mr Dursley to move from where he'd stopped. He was flabbergasted (or, he would be, if he knew what that even meant). He had just been hugged by a very strange complete stranger (he was pretty sure that violated his personal space). He was also vaguely aware that he might have been called a 'mubble'…. whatever that was. He was rattled, unsettled, and uneasy. He hurried to the main building and set off for the second floor, seriously hoping he was imagining things (which he had never hoped before, since he thought that imagination was a horrid little thing and he didn't terribly approve of it's use).

Mr Dursley didn't have a window. No, he worked in a cramped little cubicle in the bullpen of the second floor. If he had a window, he probably would have found it much more difficult to concentrate on drills that September day. As it was, he didn't see the plethora of owls swooping back and forth in broad daylight (though passers-by in the street did, after all- not everyone can be gifted with that much denseness). In fact, our dear Mr Dursley managed to have a wonderful morning. He had yelled at all five of the frightened young interns (the only people who would listen to him rant, and the only ones lower than him on the corporate totem pole anyways- and they were mostly afraid because of his bulk and not that he held any real power within the company). He had made several important calls (in his mind anyways, so what if one of them was to his own mother?) and complained a bit more to the intern he managed to corner at the water cooler. Therefore, he was in a very good mood right up until lunchtime. He'd been having such a productive day, in fact, (he had managed to sell a load of twelve crates of drills to a local hardware store, never mind that the higher ups…. and the guy in the cubicle next to him, had managed to sell just that each in under an hour) that he thought he'd reward himself with a treat from the little shop on the corner (never mind that Mrs Dursley had packed him a lunch, honestly, that woman's cooking was vile).

He'd completely forgotten about all the people in the weird cloaks (just goes to show you that his mind isn't very big or well-developed) until he passed a group of them next to the small shop, called 'Matuschek's Cookies and Gifts.' He loved the sweets here, but the tension between the manager and the cashier, Klary-something-or-other really grated on his nerves (kudos if you know the reference….). He glared at them angrily as he passed and made a show of swaggering by confidently (he looked more like a chubby, ugly, toddler stomping around in a tantrum). He couldn't pinpoint why, exactly (chalk another point up for his intelligence, folks), but these oddly dressed people made his restlessness soar to new heights (not that he'd use such a poetic description….). This lot was whispering just as excitedly as the last and he couldn't even see any of their collecting tins! What kind of a disorganised organisation were they, anyways? As he passed again, on his way back to the office, he had to stop at the crosswalk and he overheard a bit of their conversation (not that he ever eavesdropped, no, he left that kind of shit to his wife…. he was much too respectable and upstanding).

"—no, in Godric's Hollow—"

"—the Potters, that's what I heard—"

"—yes…. late last night—"

"—their son, Harry, I think—"

"—oh, just a little, one, that—"

"—couldn't stop him—"

"—even the Aurors—"

"—get there on time—"

"—and now Dumbledore—"

Dursley stopped dead in his tracks; fear lacing it's way down his spine. He looked back at the weirdoes, opened his mouth to speak, and out came a, "Wha?"

The odd strangers looked at him funny (imagine that, as if he were the bizarre one. Weirdoes.) but made no move to answer. He stood there gaping like a fish out of water for several seconds, then shut his mouth again. They began gesticulating wildly with their hands again as soon as he walked away, trembling.

When he got back to the office, Mr Dursley was in such a bad state that he turned to the secretary nearest his cubicle and barked at her not to disturb him. Giving him a, 'WTF, why would I do that, I don't even talk to you,' look, said secretary shook her head and returned to her own work. Dursley then picked up his phone, but abruptly changed his mind. No, no need to worry Mrs Dursley (who even refers to their own wife as Mrs So-and-so? There's something wrong with their relationship). They could be talking about anyone, really.

Mr Dursley thought about his in-laws and about the sister Mrs Dursley pretended she didn't have. The Dursleys didn't think they could survive the scandal if people found out about…. (dun, dun, dun!) the Potters. That uppity show-off and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. Mr Dursley knew, from his incessantly chattering wife, who knew from her hometown gossip grapevine that the Potters had a young son too, though they had never actually met him. Nor would they want to- he was another good reason for keeping the Potters away- they didn't want their precious Dudley interacting with a child like that! Their greatest fear (though nestled in a long list of other fears) was that somebody (anybody, really) would discover that they were related to…. them. It would be awful, for sure.

He stroked his moustache lovingly (and he thinks the guy in the cloak is a weirdo?) and considered. Yes, Potter isn't such an unusual name. There have to be loads of Potters out there with sons named Harry. Of course there were. (Yeah, of course there are. You just keep telling yourself that, Dursley. There might actually even be one, a weatherman, on the Australian news. Who knew?) Besides, when he thought about it more, he wasn't even certain his nephew's name was Harry at all. It could have been Harvey for all he knew. Harold, Harris, Henry! Howard, Hartley? Hurley, maybe? He'd never even laid eyes on the boy. There was no need to worry Mrs Dursley. (Again, Dursley? What, don't you love her enough to call her Petunia? Or maybe you just don't know how to pronounce it. It is a rather long word….) It always upset her to speak of her sister anyways. Not that he blamed her- oh, no! Why, if his sister had the nerve to be like her, why, he didn't even know what he'd do. He'd certainly not want a sister like that…. Thank goodness Marge was as upstanding a citizen as he was. Still…. their lot did use an awful lot of owls…. and the weirdly dressed people….

Mr Dursley obviously found it a little harder to concentrate on selling more drills that afternoon. The large order he'd been hoping to land had even fallen through, so much for that promotion…. (You wouldn't have gotten it anyways, slick. You see that girl over there in the power-grey suit? Yeah, the one you made fun of for being a housewife who should mind her own and stay out of a man's workplace? Uh-huh, glad you noticed her. Anyways, she just landed a foreign account and got the promotion.) He hadn't gotten any work done, no drills sold at all. By the time he could punch out and leave the building at five o'clock, he was ready to pull his own moustache out (and that was saying something, because he dearly loved that ugly thing).

He kept his eyes on the road and avoided the cloaked people still meandering around downtown, never once looking up for fear of seeing another avian menace and didn't even yell at anyone on the motorway because he was so frazzled. As he finally, finally, pulled up in front of number four, he immediately spotted the tabby cat from earlier (and if that didn't just sour his already peachy mood….). The blasted thing was now sitting on his cement garden wall. He was fairly certain it was the same cat, it has rather peculiar markings around it's eyes…. almost as if there were a pair of glasses drawn on.

He turned to said cat as he exited his vehicle and said, in as firm a manner as he could manage, a reprimand to leave his premises at once.

"Shoo!"

The cat did not move an inch. Actually, it appeared as though the cat raised an eyebrow at him, in an, 'Are you kidding me?' gesture. Then it gave him a stern, no nonsense look. Was this regular cat behaviour, Mr Dursley wondered? He tried valiantly to pull himself together before going in the house. He was definitely not going to mention any of this to his wife. It didn't help that the tabby followed him up the walk and planted itself in front of the living room window. He shuddered. Even they couldn't control cats, could they?

Mrs Dursley had lived through yet another uneventful, nice, normal day in the neighbourhood. Over dinner (poorly cooked by Mrs Dursley herself, as usual), she told her husband all about Mrs Figg's smelly cats—he almost choked on his own tongue at that one—Mrs Next-Door's problems with her daughter (because given her own wonderfully behaved child, she's definitely in a position to be commenting on other people's parenting, you know); and how the people getting their driveway re-done down the block were so inconsiderate, making all that racket (never mind they'd had a sinkhole from slip-shod construction due to a malfunctioning Grunnings drill bit that broke off in the concrete and had formed an air bubble there—that was just a minor inconvenience for them). She also told Mr Dursley (so I guess he's not the only one who refers to his S.O. in such an impersonal manner- a rare burst of friendliness, I tell you!) how Dudley had learned a new word (which happens to be 'No!' surprise, surprise—what a verbose one-year old).

Mr Dursley continued to try and act casually. He actually tried to whistle and lean on the wall (someone's been watching too many cheesy movies). Once Dudley had been put to bed, he made his way into he living room just in time to catch the news. He wished he hadn't (which was new too, he just didn't hold with wishful thinking, it got you nowhere, really). The newscaster droned in an upbeat, but drily professional voice:

"The Dow-Jones is down this quarter and the TSE is holding steady. The market is finally looking up again…."

He poured himself a large brandy (a pattern will emerge…. but he's not an alcoholic, no…. of course not), and took a seat on the couch.

"There was an apartment fire in the eight-hundred block of Beacon Street. No one was injured, but…." (Lol, Cheers!)

He could hear Mrs Dursley tidying up dishes in the kitchen and he glanced at his glass. Nah, why get up? He'd just get her to put it away for him later anyways.

"And finally, bird-watchers the country over have reported that our owls have been behaving rather oddly today." Well that got his attention. He sat up straighter.

"While owls normally hunt at night and are rarely, if ever spotted during the day, there have been hundreds of sightings of them flying every which way since sunrise this morning. Experts are still unable to explain why these birds have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." Dursley strained his ears and glanced at the kitchen door to see if Mrs Dursley was hearing any of this.

The journalist smiled, a perplexed little sign of his mirth, and continued, "Most puzzling. Now, over to Jim with the evening's forecast."

The weatherman, standing in front of a blue and green map of the London area, began in a crisp voice, "Viewers from areas all over, as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and even Dundee have been calling in to let us know that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a shower of shooting stars! Perhaps it may be that people are celebrating Bonfire Night a little early this year. Remember, it's not until next week, folks. I can, however, promise you a wet night tonight. The temperature in Surrey, in particular will drop below zero overnight and…."

Dursley sat immobilised in his chair. Shooting stars all over the country? Owls up and about during the middle of the day? Bizarre people in cloaks showing up all over the place? And a whisper, a snippet about the Potters…. He shook his head in denial, as if that alone would stop the coincidences from piling up on him. Even his greatly diminutive mind had to realise at some point that this was not boding well for he and his wife's plan of 'ignore them all and maybe they'll cease to exist.' Things were looking grim in the sister-in-law-the-freak department.

Which is why, Mr Dursley decided, that there was nothing for it. He'd have to mention it. As Mrs Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of steaming tea, he steeled himself to say something to her. He stood and busied himself at the cabinet, putting off the inevitable for a minute more as he added a generous helping of more brandy into his tea. He cleared his throat as inconspicuously as possible, then a bit louder when that failed to get his wife's attention.

"Erm, Petunia, darling, you haven't, uhhh, by chance—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

"No." She turned a cold stare on him, shocked and angry as he'd expected and continued sharply, "Why?" She folded her glossy magazine in front of her and pulled it down a bit to glare at him.

"Erm…. just, you know, funny stuff on the news." Mr Dursley deflated a little under her stare, "Owls all day…. shooting stars all night…. a lot of—of weirdly dressed folks in town today…. Do you know what a 'mubble' is?"

"So?" the horsey-faced blonde snapped. "And no." she added tartly, though her eyes had a knowing gleam in them.

"Well—I, you know…. I thought maybe it had something to do with, you know, their lot."

Mrs Dursley, none too happy, sipped her tepid tea through pursed lips. My Dursley briefly pondered telling her he'd heard a whisper about the Potters, then decided that no, he wouldn't. It just wasn't worth it.

Instead, he continued, as nonchalantly as possible, "Their son…. He'd be about—about Dudley's age, now wouldn't he?" (Not possible Dursley, she's already onto you…. it's too late. It was too late as soon as you blundered up about 'mubbles.')

"Yes, I suppose. What of it?"

"Well, what's his name again? Horton, or…. maybe Howard, was it?" He trailed off uneasily, wondering if he'd maybe pushed too far. "Higgins? No…. Holmes?"

Mrs Dursley narrowed her eyes with a terse sigh. "Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me." (Well, no one did now did they, Petunia darling?) "And why are you so interested? What's it got to do with us?"

"Oh." His heart sinking, Mr Dursley continued. "Oh, yes. It is, I quite agree." He fiddled with his teacup and then added an extra shot of brandy for good measure. You never knew when a spot of brandy would be helpful, after all.

He wisely decided not to say another word about it as they retired to bed. As Mrs Dursley primped in front of their bathroom mirror (not that it's going to help her, mind you, and really, it's night time in your own home—what exactly have you got to look good for? Dursley? Ha!), Mr Dursley crept to their front window and peered down into the front yard. The cat was still sitting there, as nonplussed as ever. It was looking down the road into the distance, almost as if waiting for something to appear there out of thin air. Though as he watched longer, it glanced up at him questioningly, probably feeling the weight of his stare. He back-pedalled from the window quickly and out of the tabby's sight. Could be dangerous, you know…. You never knew with those people.

Dursley started turning down the covers and rearranging the lamp on his bedside table. He shook himself. Was he only imaging things? Was fear getting the better of him? Did any of this have anything to do with the Potters at all? And if it did…. if by some chance word got out that they were related to a pair of—well, a pair of…. no, he couldn't even bring himself to say it. He didn't think he could bear that thought…. and surely it couldn't bring good luck to the situation to even ponder on it. No, he'd just forget it all….

His final, comforting thought before drifting off into a fitful sleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for it to affect them. The Potters had no conceivable reason at all to come anywhere near he and Mrs Dursley. They knew very well what her sister thought of them and their sort. He couldn't imagine (maybe because he never practices imagination) how he and Petunia could get dragged into anything that might be happening.

Oh, Dursley, how very idiotic of you to think you could figure anything out. And how very wrong you are, besides.

The cat outside sent one last baleful glance at the light that just went out in the Dursley's upstairs window, then turned to the street. The tabby stood up and padded down to the edge of the lawn, turning around once and taking a seat on the cool grass. With a reproachful tilt of its head at a grasshopper trilling nearby, the grey and black cat watched the open end of the cul-de-sac with single-minded purpose, until an odd-looking fellow (even compared to the others) popped into existence and turned to smile at the tabby.

"Ah…. I should have guessed."

The man looked around in seeming confusion, patting his pockets as if he'd lost something. Eventually, he pulled a small object from a coat pocket and clicked the silver doo-dad with effervescent buoyancy. All of the streetlamps went out with a flicker. He marched merrily down the road to stop in front of the cat with a cutesy little (exaggeratingly overdone) bow.

"Fancy finding you here, Professor McGonagall."

The cat, meanwhile, had disappeared and in it's place sat a rather severe-looking woman, who incidentally happened to be wearing spectacles exactly the same shade and shape of the odd markings around the cat's eyes had been. She, like the man, was wearing a cloak, though hers was of a far more subtle forest green compared to his offensively neon electric-purple one. Her salt-and-pepper black and grey hair was pulled back into a tight, neat bun near the nape of her neck. She looked vaguely putout.

"Of course, you'd know it was me." She smoothed out the wrinkles in her cloak and shook her limbs slightly to wake them up.

"Of course, my dear. You sit ever so stiffly. No natural cat ever has sat quite like that."

She huffed. "You'd be stiff too if you had been sitting on a brick wall all day."

Dumbledore chuckled softly. "All day? But my dear, you could have been celebrating! I must have joined in a dozen feasts and parties on my way here." (He…. spent all day partying on his way there. And yet everyone still thinks he's the best possible leader? Seriously.)

Professor McGonagall stiffened a little haughtily. "Oh, yes. Everyone is celebrating, all right." She huffed angrily. "You'd think that they could be a little more cautious. No—they're so wrapped up that even the Muggles have noticed! There were reports of owls and shooting stars on their news just this evening."

Dumbledore sighed. "You can't really blame them, though."

Professor McGonagall shook her head in irritation. "I know that. But still, they were out in droves today, not even dressed in Muggle clothing! A fine spot we'd be in if the Muggles were to discover our existence." She paused. "I suppose he really is gone, then, Professor?"

Dumbledore was fiddling in his pockets again as he answered absently, "Yes, it would certainly appear so, no? Would you like a sherbet lemon?"

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "A what?"

He smiled jovially. "A sherbet lemon, a type of Muggle sweet. They're truly scrumptious." (Nod to what, anyone?)

"No, thank you," Professor McGonagall replied, somewhat curtly—she obviously knew when the situation merited seriousness. "As I was saying, Professor, even if You-Know-Who is gone—"

"My dear," Dumbledore interrupted, "Surely an educated person such as yourself can call him by his proper name?" (Tom, isn't it?)

As Dumbledore pried apart two sticky sherbet lemons to pop another into his mouth, he continued, "It gets ever so confusing, all this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense. I have never seen any reason to be afraid of using his name."

"Yes," Professor McGonagall began, slightly exasperated, "of course. Habit, you know."

Dumbledore simply smiled at her serenely.

Professor McGonagall's face became more serious. "Do you know what they're saying, Professor, about why Voldemort's gone?"

It was quite evident, from the set of her stance and the look on her face that whatever they were saying was not something she was likely to believe unless Dumbledore told her it was true. (Tch. Blind trust.)

"Did he kill them?" A straight-to-the-point woman. Good on you, McGonagall.

As Dumbledore bowed his head, Professor McGonagall gasped and choked back a sob, refusing to break. Dumbledore reached out awkwardly and patted her on the shoulder. "There, there. I know…. I know…." (Oh, that was super-comforting….)

Professor McGonagall continued, "And Harry? Did he try to kill the boy too?"

Dumbledore nodded gloomily, peering into his hands.

Professor McGonagall's eyes widened. "So it's true? After all the evil—after everyone else he's killed, he—he couldn't kill a helpless bairn? Of all the things to stop him…. How did the poor wee one survive, Albus?"

"It's anyone's guess, really," Dumbledore began, "we may never truly know."

Professor McGonagall pulled a small handkerchief from her cloak pocket and dabbed at her tearing eyes behind her spectacles.

Dumbledore spoke again. "Hagrid is, unfortunately late. I suppose it was he who let it slip to you that you could find me here?"

"Yes." McGonagall replied, "He also might have mentioned a possible reason why, Professor. He said you asked to meet him here with young Harry. Surely you can't mean to—"

Dumbledore interrupted. "Yes, I've come to drop Harry off with his aunt and uncle."

"You can't mean—oh Dumbledore. Surely not the people here, for goodness sakes!" She jumped to her feet, first wringing her hands, then pointing at number four. "Professor, you can't. I have been watching this family all day. You couldn't find two people who are so insensitive. They have this son—a spoilt, lump of a child. Sweet Lily's son, come and live here? A fine place to leave an impressionable young one!" Had she been inclined to childish whims, she may even have stomped her foot after this impassioned declaration. As it was, she merely shook her head severely at the older man.

"It really is the best place for him," he began, not looking her in the eye (hmmm, wonder why? Maybe even he knows he's being a jerk), "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older—see here, I've even written them a letter!" He waved the envelope about merrily.

"A letter?" Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, Professor, do you think you can explain all this," she gestured around with a hand, "adequately in a letter?" Her voice became rather indignant as she continued, "These people—" eloquent as she habitually was, even she couldn't find the words to adequately describe exactly just what she thought of the Dursleys and so she gave up and strategically tried another track, "He'll be famous, Professor, I wouldn't be surprised if they declared a holiday in the future known as Harry Potter day. His relatives—they're just too different from us and these people do not tolerate things that are different than they! I have seen it with my own two eyes. People in our world…. they could be more help to him. At least they will know his story."

"Exactly!" Dumbledore crowed, as if he had just made a grand point, and looking at the severe woman over the top of his spectacles, "Famous before he can walk and talk—known our world over for an event he will not even remember. Can't you see how much better off he'll be, away from that fame, here?"

The woman opened her mouth to protest, changed her mind and closed it again, swallowing with difficulty around the lump of…. something…. forming in her throat. (You've got good instincts, girl, you shouldn't just push them aside!) Professor McGonagall didn't seem entirely convinced, but nodded tiredly anyways. "Yes…." (Tch. Too much faith in the old geezer.)

She sighed. "You're…. right—of course. How exactly is the bairn getting here?" She eyed his cloak warily, as if he might be hiding the tot in there somewhere.

"Well, Hagrid is bringing him, of course! That's why I asked him to meet me here."

She gaped at him. "I thought he meant he would meet both you and Harry here! Do you think it wise to trust him with something as delicate as an infant?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life, my dear," Dumbledore assured her (so the old guy does some things right….).

"As would many, Professor. Even I. I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," she continued after a brief pause, "though you cannot pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what in Merlin's name is that?"

A deep rumbling sound had broken through the silence blanketing them and it slowly grew louder as they spotted a headlight, though in the sky rather than on the ground and a large motorbike landed on the road in front of the pair.

"Ahh, Hagrid. At last." Dumbledore sounded relieved as he breathed the words (despite trusting him with his life? Sounds fishy….). "May I ask," he raised a sceptical eyebrow, "where you managed to get that motorbike from?"

"I borrowed it, Sir," began the rather giant (and unkempt) man, clambering off the motorbike, "Was young Sirius Black lent it me, he did. I've got'im, Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Both Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall leant forward over the small bundle of blankets nestled in the crook of the newcomer's arm. Through a tuft of jet-black hair, they could just make out a curiously shaped cut on the child's forehead.

Professor McGonagall swept a careful hand down the babe's cheek. "Is that where—" she began in a whisper.

"Yes." Dumbledore interrupted. "The boy will have that scar forever."

"Could we…. could you do something about it, Dumbledore?" she let her hand fall uncertainly from the baby's face.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't, scars can be very useful sometimes, my dear." (Yes…. and you use it so well later—much to 'the boy's' mental detriment, don't you? Did you know now already?) He waved his hands impatiently at the giant, gesturing for him to hand the child over. "Well, give him here! We should be getting this over with."

"Could I—say goodbye, Sir?" The giant man bent his great head and gave the baby what must have been a very scratchy, tickly kiss. Then his entire frame drooped as loud sobs wracked his body.

Professor McGonagall shushed him with a consoling pat on the arm. "I know it's difficult, but do you want us to be found?"

In front of them, Dumbledore stepped over to the path that led up to the door and laid Harry on the front welcome mat. He placed his letter on top of the boy's blanket and wandered back towards the other two.

"Professor, it's autumn. Not only is rain is expected and the temperatures have been below freezing for quite a few days already. Don't you think that perhaps a warming charm is in order?" Professor McGonagall whispered a mite critically. She hastily added, "One the Muggles won't be able to detect, of course."

"Ah. Yes. Well," the old man began, "that's it then. We've no further business here. We may as well go and celebrate."

Hagrid sniffled, "Yeah. I—I 'spose I should return young Sirius his bike back." He shuffled off, adding, "G'night, Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Scrubbing furiously at his streaming eyes with a coat sleeve, Hagrid swung his massive frame over the motorbike and kick-started it with a small roar. It rose, rumbling, into the night sky and flew off.

Turning to his remaining companion, Dumbledore spoke gravely, "I expect to be seeing you soon, Professor McGonagall."

He nodded curtly as she blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes in response, gaze unwavering from the small babe on the steps. Dumbledore turned and made his way back down to the corner of the street, where he took out his silver doo-dad and returned the light from the street lamps. From this distance, Dumbledore could just make out a small bundle of blankets on the Dursley's front stoop. Just beyond which, there was a graceful black and grey tabby cat slinking off down the street.

With a put-upon sigh, Dumbledore was gone in a swirl of electric purple cloak.

Harry Potter lay sleeping on the stoop left alone in the dark chill of night, unconsciously gripping the letter beside him in a small hand and dreaming peaceful dreams. In a few hours, the wee one would be rudely awoken by his aunt's awful screeching. For the next week, he would spend his hours being poked, prodded, pinched and stared at by his cousin, Dudley…. But right now, unbeknownst to the sleeping babe, all around the country, shouted in joyous abandon, or whispered in secret relief, at this very moment, people were toasting him—"To Harry Potter—the boy who lived!"

And unbeknownst to a certain silver-haired old gentleman, a very determined tabby cat slunk back and stubbornly kept watch over a sleeping babe. (You mama bear, you.)

And unbeknownst to all three, across the country in a small wood just outside of Godric's Hollow, a man silently wept for his sister, for his friend, falling on his knees and crying silently in the darkness.

So, here's the aforementioned (huge) author's note:

Hi, some of you may already know me from some of my previously written fanfiction. If not, let me introduce myself. My new penname is Tamer (formerly Chickie) and I've been around this site for a while already. Though Naruto is my favourite fandom to write (because I find it easy) it is not my first love. I originally came here looking for a FanFic version of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows that a colleague of mine suggested I read. Sadly, I have never seem to come across it (if anyone knows about an HP fanfic that replaces the last book, doesn't have everyone dropping like flies—because that was the fic author's issue—is well written and longer than J.K.'s original, please let me know where I can find it—plus I think it's Het only and closer to epilogue compliant than my usual EWE yaoi reads). I have however, developed quite a fondness (read, weakness) for yaoi and one of the pairings I have fallen in love with is Drarry. I also have a thing for Severus as Harry's mentor. Therefore, my mind has spawned this monstrosity.

In this fic, I am trying to stay as close to original as possible while still making some huge changes. I know that's sounds like an oxymoron, but hear me out. I am going to try and integrate my head canon as seamlessly as I can into the original story. To do this, I am going to make a lot of what can be considered 'monumental' changes, such as Sorting into different houses and casting Severus as Harry's father, though I am going to include explanations to make this all seem plausible if not entirely true in real canon. I will use existing cues from the movie and book-verses, including deleted scenes from the movies to make it seem like, yes, this is believable in the HP fandom. Also, I have a more tongue-in-cheek writing style than J.K. (read: sarcastic and author intrusive) and I am poetic in my descriptions (read: long-winded, lol) and I love dialogue to characterise my people rather than just their actions (read: see my characterisation in 'For Granted's' first few chapters or 'Steamed Up.'

While I don't want to give away spoilers for my writing, I do think that you have a right to know what to expect before you decide to spend your time with my story or not so that you don't feel like I'm ripping you off by making claims in my summary and then not following through (because it's a pet peeve of mine when other authors do that and it's all I can do not to flame them).

First off, I may make some characters OOC. Sometimes this will be on purpose to suit my story's needs and other times it will be simply because this is the first HP fanfic I'm writing and I haven't quite gotten into the groove of writing these characters properly yet. I'm sorry if it bothers you, and rest assured, I will try my best not to deviate form canon personality. I may take more liberties with secondary and tertiary characters, however, such as Blaise and Daphne, so be forewarned.

Secondly, as previously mentioned, one of the biggest changes will be that it turns out Snape is Harry's father. I hope that the way I explain it makes sense, because I have come across a handful of very badly written fics where this is the main premise and they never actually explain anything, which totally pisses me off. (One of the reasons I chose to finally write this, even though it's kind of a scary under-taking.)

Thirdly, the Sorting will be somewhat different. This will apply only to Harry and Hermione concretely, though there will be insinuations of more conversations with the hat that were not there before. Sorting will also play a large role in my version of the stories (particularly from book two onwards), including reference's to J.K.'s official website, Pottermore, to explain certain aspects of my story. I will be utilising her "Hatstalls" to my advantage in this theory (see McGonagall's bio and Flitwick's. They were both considered Hatstalls). On Pottermore, it means you were a toss-up between two houses. I know this because I myself was undecided by the hat after its customary seven questions and so it gave me the option of either being Gryffindor or Slytherin (silver and green all the way, guys—I guess I just haven't got Harry's 'upstanding moral fibre'!).

Fourthly, Fred and Hedwig do not die. I haven't decided with Sirius yet, and I think I'll keep either Tonks or Remus (possibly both) alive. Still not sure though, but I promise, Fred and Hedwig at least are definitely safe. I know this could be a sticking point for some.

Fifthly, (and I'm about to piss half of you off right here, right now) Dumbledore is not going to be the hero. I do understand that he did what he thought was best, but I'm really angry with the facts about how he treated Harry and Severus as nothing more than tools in the war. Overall, I still believe that he was one of the good guys, but definitely not worth all of the trust and adoration heaped on him as he had. Sure, he had his moments where he showed he cared for them, but he also had his moments (and there were a lot more of these, I feel) where he ignores their suffering or uses them through manipulation. People are not pawns, even when there is a war going on. Neither is Ron. I still sometimes can't get over how mean he was to Hermione, and then he gets to keep her? Yeah, no, so not happening here. She grows up to be this amazing witch, an amazing woman and ends up with the man who turned his back on Harry during the tournament and then abandons both of them on the Horcrux hunt? I felt that he betrayed them too many times to be redeemed (again, I still think that overall in the original he was one of the 'good guys' but man, he just really sucked at it, you know?). From the beginning, his personality will more resemble what he was like during fourth year. Also, even though Draco (and yes, I'll admit, he is one of my favourite characters and he's also a spoilt jackass with major daddy issues) does many, many bad things, he's not evil. There's a difference between wrong and genuine, pure evil. I believe that he never had a choice; like Narcissa says to Severus in year six, "He's just a boy." And he is—a boy who was raised a certain way, who did what he had to in order to protect his family and who never had a choice. Which is why, in my story, he will get the choice. So—Ron's "best friend" character will be quasi replaced with Draco and partly the Weasley twins/Ginny. Draco's "enemy" character will be semi replaced with Ron and on the other end, Nott (because his dad's a death eater too) will be the one with Crabbe and Goyle as his cronies. I will still use many of the same situations, though, rest assured, favourites such as the white ferret, Ford Anglia rescue and stuff will still be there, just a little different! (HP a la, "Scared, Potter?" anyone?) Oh, and for those of you who are worried that I'll bash James just because Severus is Harry's dad, I won't. Granted, I'm not going to sugar coat things (because he was an insufferable bully—not as bad as Sirius, that lovable git), but in the end, he'll still be 'one of the good guys.' I hope you'll appreciate how I write James and Severus together (not as in together, together, just as in simultaneously in this particular fic). Also, just because Ron and Harry aren't going to be besties doesn't mean the Weasley family 'adopting' Harry isn't going to happen—he will still be best friends with the twins and good friends with Ginny so many of the family scenes will still exist. Also, the Dursley summers (though it seems implausible with Harry being Sev's kid) will still happen, at least up until the summer of year four. I know that seems vague, but all will reveal itself in due time, bwahahahaha. (Okay, I'm done with the wicked laugh now.) Also, PS Lucius will get his come-uppance in this story. He's one of my least favourite characters, besides Umbridge. Ugh…. Umbridge. We'll just deal with her later.

Lastly, the pairings will be different. I appreciate that J.K. addressed so many important issues in her books (racism, tolerance, child abuse, bullying, PTSD, slavery, etc. …. even though I believe the child abuse one could have been better hashed out…. which I hope to do here) but still, all of her pairings were het. One of my favourite/closest colleagues is gay (and leaving us this year…. waaaaah!) and I have no doubt he would have felt better in his own skin if he could have read a book when he was younger where it's ok to be gay. –Wow, that sounded chant-like even to me.— Obviously, since I ship Drarry, you can see where this is going, right? However, it also kind of irks me when you get into a yaoi pairing and then everyone writes all of the pairs in all of their stories as yuri or yaoi. Statistics people! Last time I checked only about 10% of the population is straight up (no pun intended) gay or lesbian and even though the percentage goes up to like 30% for bi, it's still not the majority (and especially not all) of society, so be a little realistic here, please!? Which is why in this version, most of my couples will be het (I might write some sex for them, but I'll mostly stick to my main yaoi pair) with maybe one other gay or bi couple as an off-to-the-side, B-plot romance. I think that the pairings are probably going to be most people's choosing point—and one of the most different things about her (J. K.'s) epilogue (as compared to mine)—since we ship our faves so hard, so I'll list them here (this doesn't mean it will happen right away—or that they don't go through other dating before they end up together, it's just the epilogue couples that I'm planning; because I do have a master plan for the whole project, bwahahaha…. ok, moving on, sorry):

Harry & Draco

Hermione & Blaise

Fred & Padma

George & Hestia (this one might change; it kind of gave me the squicks that he ended up with his twin brother's ex. I mean, was she with him because he was George, or because he was Fred's replacement? Would Fred have minded sharing—is that why George liked her? Ahhh—it drives me bonkers sometimes just thinking about it; but I kind of like having both of the twins end up with a twin, but from different sets of twins. What do you guys think?)

Ginny & Lee (this one might change…. actually, it probably will)

Seamus & Tracey…. Dean & Luna (these are listed together because they kind of swing or are more like a foursome. May change with Ginny's pair)

Neville & Astoria

Remus & Tonks (I thought about it, but yeah, I just can't bring myself to break them up)

Narcissa & Kingsley (definitely not from the beginning and a bit weird, I know, not going to everyone's cup of tea—but it'll mostly be unobtrusive, you know? but I find them kind of compelling in an odd way)

Fleur & Bill (couldn't break them up either)

Charlie & either Daphne or Oliver. Haven't decided yet (Oliver might also end up with Ginny instead of Lee). He could end up with my most prominent OC (there are very few…. Kyle might actually be the only one, but anyhoo….) even though Kyle is youngish for him.

Severus & someone. (This is definitely going to be a het pairing, I just don't see Sev as gay or bi, but I'm not sure with whom yet, I was debating between Professor Sinistra, Madam Rosmerta and an OC. We'll see…. dating is kind of OOC for him, so it'll be an awkward, but cute relationship, and just like Narcissa's love interest in won't be blaring, in-your-face).

So, if you can deal with all of that and are still here, then welcome to my very own HP Head Canon world. I hope you enjoy your stay (and my story). Thanks for sticking with me, bisous!

Love, Tamer

P.S. Most chapters will be based on the book chapters. Chapters labelled as fractions are ones that are entirely my own, instead of the original ones that I modify; I'm labelling them as fractions so that I can fit them neatly into the "regular" chapters. Movie bits may make it into either type of chapter. Just as a heads up, I am busy and updates will be sporadic, but I WILL NOT abandon this story, no matter how long it takes me to finish it. I cannot abide quitting.

The rating of this fic for right now is Teen, for swearing, sexual innuendos (usually in my brackets if you want to avoid them) and some minor violence. It will go up to M later for more sexual situations and worse violence.

Ok, I'm sorry I keep talking, but I also want to point out that: YES. I know Rowling has explicitly said that Harry is Harry's full first name and it is not short for anything, but the reason I use another name later is not to change this fact about him personally, but more to differentiate between Harrys, ok? So please don't bite my head off.

Finally, if there are any gay guys out there reading my stories, (and who are comfortable enough with their own sexuality to do so) could you maybe PM me, because I would really like an insider's views about gay sex. Seriously, guys, if you've read any of my shit you know I'm a bit of a stickler for realism, but let's face it—realistically, I've only ever been with guys even though I'm open to bi-curiousness and I'm a chick—so I don't know what it feels like on the guy's end even if I know what it's like for me. I'm interested in an open talk about it if anyone can handle that—it would be much appreciated.