A/N: Okay, this is a weird idea that I wrote when I was very, very tired. I'll try to keep it as close to canon characterization as possible, with a few obvious exceptions being a fem-Harry, fem-Ron, and Dudley's personality/background. No parings at the moment except for canon Arthur/Molly, but it's only there if one squints-their moments will be few-and some eventual mentioned Lily/James. Romantic relationships won't be prevalent in this story, perhaps in a later one when the characters are older.
Will be unplanned aka no outline with likely short chapters. I'm hoping the next chapter will be longer. Anything goes at this point, and I will take into account others' opinions. Cross-posted on AO3.
The house on Privet Drive was nothing but ash by the time Albus Dumbledore arrived. Smoke, gray and thick, curled in the air. It was a ruin; bricks, half-standing walls, and things unidentifiable all strewn about on what used to be a meticulously kept lawn. Even from the distance, the headmaster could feel magic. There was no doubt, now. The fire was anything but natural.
Harriet Lily Potter, dubbed The-Girl-Who-Lived, stood in the wreckage with wide unseeing eyes. Dumbledore stopped several feet away, arms held out so he didn't startle her anymore than she already was. The girl did little in reacting to his approach.
"Harriet?" he asked, gently. "Your name is Harriet Potter, is that correct?"
The girl started at his voice. "I ..." she trailed off, her eyes staring at some point above Dumbledore's head. She stayed like this for several long moments before she shook her head and looked away. "Yes. Yes. I'm Harriet."
Conversation. Good, he sighed, she needed to keep talking. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I'm a headmaster for a school-"
"What kind of school?"
Dumbledore smiled and continued, "It's a school for gifted children much like yourself."
Harriet's eyes snapped to his, jaw visibly tensing. Instantly, and just a tad too late, he realized his mistake. "Don't be alarmed," he started, taking a small, nearly unnoticeable, step forward.
The girl scoffed. "Too late for that." She gestured with her head at the ruined house around them. Abruptly, her expression shifted into a mask Dumbledore recognized from his years of teaching.
She was distancing herself. Shutting down.
He closed his eyes briefly and hastily thought on what to say to keep her in the now. The next few moments were crucial. "The school," he began again, voice even softer and slower than before, "is a place where you learn how to control your magic."
"Magic isn't real."
"Then how do you explain this?"
Harriet grew silent and shrugged, looking anywhere that wasn't at him. Around them the heat had begun cooling. The smoke continued to circle them-like a predator-dancing around the young girl's face and knobbly legs. She shuddered. Someone from the DMAC (Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes) had at one point laid a blanket across what was left of the sofa, and now she eyed it. From there she turned her face to peer through mated dark hair, silently gauging with emerald eyes, which looked, in his experience, as though she had seen all too much-and perhaps she had, he thought with dread. There was a faint, dull light. Sharp. Questioning. Hesitant. Guarded.
When the headmaster proved to stay in that one spot, she quickly snatched the blanket and threw it behind her. Something flickered, practically pouncing on the rough fabric, before disappearing as though it never existed to begin with. But Dumbledore saw clearly, and was filled with the desire to smack himself for forgetting. The something was another child, not as small or bony as Harriet but no where near a healthy size; he was much like a waif, looking as though a brisk wind could send him sprawling.
He was Dudley Dursley.
The little Dumbledore could see of the boy was hastily overshadowed by Harriet's small form. She crossed her arms and scowled. Dudley glanced around his cousin, blonde head a contrast against the gray surrounding them, his brow furrowed, hands fidgeting. He muttered under his breath.
"I'm sorry, my boy, what did you say?"
"-another blanket. Please." His watery small eyes suddenly widened. "You-You don't have to, of course. I mean ..." He trailed off and shifted closer to Harriet, who automatically wrapped an arm around his shaking shoulders. Her expression was closed off but this didn't seem to bother her cousin in the slightest.
Dumbledore was struck speechless. The boy was expecting an negative answer, all over a blanket, a bit of warmth. What atrocities had he left the children in? What kind of people were the Dursleys? Minerva McGonagall, a trusted coworker and dear friend, had told him they were the worst sort of muggles, but she hadn't mentioned events that would cause this sort of meekness. In fact, their only child was shaping out to be quite spoiled according to her. It was supposed to be a loving home.
What changed? He was ashamed he couldn't answer that question.
"I can do better. How would you and your cousin like to have a cup of hot chocolate and all the blankets you could ever need?" Dumbledore's smile, though he tried, couldn't quite reach his infamously gleaming eyes.
Harriet glanced at the people combing through the ruin, wands stealthily hidden from observant eyes, and blinked owlishly at them as though only now noticing their existence on the property. She was visibly weighing her options. Slowly, she nodded.
Dumbledore was expecting, from the way they were acting, it would take more convincing. But the mere mention of warmth, away from the cold ashes, memories, and the prying eyes of strangers, proved too tempting an offer. The hot chocolate likely helping some for he noticed the boy had instantly perked up at the mention of it.
"How are we getting there?"
It took him several attempts before he finally replied, his heart too heavy to shower it with his usual enthusiasm. "Magic, of course."