1. Foster Father
A grim, hazy fog strolled lazily over the city of London, foreshadowing the massive storm to come. Thunderclouds rolled in slowly, as if hesitant, and then faster and faster until they blotted out the blue of the sky.
Officer Henry Pocock looked out the window, saw the clouds, and frowned. He jotted down some notes. He puffed his cigar. He looked out the window again. The clouds were still there.
His frown grew more pronounced. He left the comfort of his armchair and headed into the street, still eyeing the dark clouds suspiciously. The weatherman had forecasted a clear, cloudless night! Clearly, something was wrong.
He'd been looking forward to a night of stargazing. His hopes were dashed as the beginnings of a rain dripped onto the cobbled street. No, this weather wasn't going away anytime fast.
He returned to his armchair, typed a few more notes, sent an email which said nothing in particular to nobody in particular, and packed up his bags and left the building.
He arrived at Number 7, Agate Terrace, at precisely 6:21 P.M. He parked his car in his garage, entered the house through the back door, and pilfered his refrigerator in search of a coffee.
Having found said coffee, he reclined on his chair, stretched his back, and turned on the telly. A sound of thunder filled the small home; rain clattered loudly against the panes. He looked up, annoyed, and turned off the TV. No point in watching, really. He couldn't hear anything over this racket!
The doorbell suddenly rang. He sat up in his seat and looked over the edge of the leather sofa. The doorbell rang again. He sighed. He dragged himself to the door, his arms lead weights against his sides. Whoever came calling at this late an hour had better have a good excuse!
~Earlier that day~
Professor Mcgonagall was adamant. "You can't send Harry to live with those muggles! They're the worst of the worst! Surely you can find a more suitable parent?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "I've tried everything, Minerva…"
"What constitutes a relative? Perhaps you could go back a generation or two and count the family tree from there!" Mcgonagall suggested.
Albus sighed. There was no winning an argument against a woman like Minerva Mcgonagall.
"Very well, I'll try…"
To his immense surprise, Harry did happen to have another relative- just one, mind you- a software engineer, living in London.
His name was George Shultz. He was an American who'd found a job open in Britain, and had jumped at the opportunity. Nearly all of his money each month was spent on housing and food. It was clear the poor man was surviving by the skin of his teeth.
"Minerva, I have found one living relative of Harry's other than the Dursleys, but he's in deep debt. He barely manages to keep his home, for heaven's sake! He can't afford to watch over someone like Harry!" Dumbledore said, almost placatingly.
"Alright, maybe not that one. Surely you can find somebody else, though. Somebody on his mother's side, maybe?" she asked in an almost pleading tone.
Professor Dumbledore sighed again. "I've tried everything, Minerva! There's nothing for it, he'll have to stay with the Dursleys."
"Not if I have a say in it! I've SEEN the way that…woman… looks at Lily! She hates her! She'll hate her son even more! By throwing Harry into their house you are sentencing him to hell on earth!" Mcgonagall spat. Dumbledore sighed. "Alright, I'll go back one more generation and count the bloodline down another segment… this will severely weaken the Blood wards, though…"
He looked pointedly at Mcgonagall. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named still can't get in, can he?"
Albus wrung his hands. "Well, no, but-"
"Then it's settled. Find the most suitable foster parent for Harry among the third generation's children."
After a few moments of silence (and a whole lot of wand waving) Albus decided on a guardian. "Henry Pocock seems to fit the bill admirably. He's a police officer with a strong sense of right and wrong. He's got a lot of hobbies, too, and is very interested in certain branches of science."
Minerva nodded thoughtfully. "That could work. Can you arrange for Hagrid to drop him off there?"
"Certainly."
~oOo~
Henry Pocock looked out the door and saw only smothering darkness, his spluttering front porch light, his old Welcome Mat, and a bundle with a baby in it. In other words, everything was as it had been an hour ago. He closed the door, dismissing the ring as some prankster's sick idea of a joke.
He was halfway back to his armchair when logic kicked in. Wait a minute.. a bundle with a baby in it!? He dashed back to the doorstep and threw open the door. On the floor, just shy of the Welcome Mat, lay a small, wooden crib. A small boy lay sleeping in the cold, clutching a large, professional-looking letter in his tiny hands.
Henry was in shock. Who in their right mind would leave a baby alone in the cold on a stranger's doorstep?! He knelt beside the boy and studied the little child. He was very cute, even for a baby. His mouth tilted to one side, allowing the slightest bit of drool to escape out the sides. A small, thin, red dot ran along his forehead, barely visible in the lamplight. Henry brushed back the little locks of hair, tracing the line with a cautious finger.
He gasped. What he had mistaken for a cut was a long, thin scar running along the top of the child's forehead. What kind of sadistic madman would do this to an innocent baby!? He sat there in shock for quite a while, not knowing what to do.
The child gurgled, rolling to one side. He caught a glimpse of the letter; inscribed on the side, in boldened red ink, was his name- To: Mr. Henry Pocock.
Curious now, he inched his fingers forward, carefully tugging the card from the boy's grasp. He opened the letter with a careful hand and read it, scarcely believing his eyes.
Dear Mr. Pocock,
If you are reading this letter, then you must have found little Harry Potter. This little boy here is your nephew, a few times removed. He's an orphan, and nobody will take him in. If you refuse to provide him shelter, then he will surely be sent to an orphanage. We beg of you to take him in, and to provide him a good home.
Sincerely,
Professor Dumbledore
Henry looked at the letter with an arched eyebrow. It sounded a tad bit shady… the words were just a tad bit manipulative, almost compelling. The writer seemed to be placing the burden of fatherhood on him! It wasn't his duty to provide a good home! And then he looked down at the child, and sighed.
He couldn't bear the thought of having this tiny, cute little boy shipped off to some sort of ratty orphanage. Grasping the crib by the top he lugged it in, gently closing the door behind him as to not disturb Harry's sleep.