Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling is the rightful owner of Harry Potter and all associated characters. I just Filch them occasionally and I always put them back where I found them - I promise, I do! Well, most of the time … HAHA - FILCH, GEDDIT? Did I make a funny? Nope, didn't think so.
Nor do I own any references to films, books, songs or any other copyrighted works that may appear in this fanfic.
Anyway … moving on.
Summary: After his encounter with Wormtail and the Dementors at the end of his third year at Hogwarts, Harry chooses an alternative path - the path of life … life like never before … happy life.
A/N: Yes, I know. I'm very naughty. I shouldn't really be writing this right now, not after I made that promise to just concentrate on one story and build my works around it - but here I am. This is just a little plot bunny that hit me a few days ago, and it quickly evolved into a full-sized boxing hare. Hopefully, I can do it justice.
Chapter Warnings: Strong language, flashbacks, and a bit of violence.
There was a terrible snarling noise. Lupin's head was lengthening. So was his body. His shoulders were hunching. Hair was sprouting visibly on his face and hands, which were curling into clawed paws. Crookshanks' hair was on end again; he was backing away.
As the werewolf reared, snapping its long jaws, Sirius disappeared from Harry's side. He had transformed. The enormous, bear-like dog bounded forward. As the werewolf wrenched itself free of the manacle binding it, the dog seized it about the neck and pulled it backward, away from Ron and Pettigrew. They were locked, jaw to jaw, claws ripping at each other.
Harry stood, transfixed by the sight, too intent upon the battle to notice anything else. It was Hermione's scream that alerted him.
Pettigrew had dived for Lupin's dropped wand. Ron, unsteady on his bandaged leg, fell. There was a bang, a burst of light - and Ron lay motionless on the ground. Another bang; Crookshanks flew into the air and back to the earth in a heap.
"Expelliarmus." Harry yelled, pointing his own wand at Pettigrew; Lupin's wand flew high into the air and out of sight. "Stay where you are!" Harry shouted, running forward.
Too late. Pettigrew had transformed. Harry saw his bald tail whip through the manacle on Ron's outstretched arm and heard a scurrying through the grass.
He had escaped.
"AH!"
Harry woke in a pool of sweat, his forehead dripping. His breath was heavy and panting, and his body glistened in the dark. This being the third time he had the dream in a week, he went over to the window, and sat down gently, picking up a piece of paper and a pen.
It happened again tonight. It's the same dream, every night. Dreams about Voldemort would be more fun. At least they would break up the monotony.
I still can't believe Pettigrew managed to escape. It shouldn't have been possible, and now the rat's cost Sirius his freedom - again.
What would Sirius say? What would the twins say? Or Ron, or Hermione? 'Don't let it get to you, Harry. It's not your fault.'
Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. But it's not going to happen again. He's ruined our lives enough.
He laid it down on top of a wad of parchment and scraps, all of them with the almost identical writing on.
Harry got back into bed and curled up, ready to sleep.
"It's not going to happen again," he muttered. "It's not going to happen again."
"Harry! Wake up - it's eight o'clock!"
The shout came unsuspected to a lightly dozing Harry, who practically leapt out bed to get and dressed, and he headed downstairs quicker than ever before.
"Sorry, Aunt Petunia," he said once he'd reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Here," said Petunia, giving him a pan and some bacon and sausages. "The eggs, black pudding, mushrooms, beans and tomatoes are on the side in the kitchen. Get it ready as quickly as you can - you know what to do."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said as he reached for the ingredients.
Moments later, the sounds and smells of sizzling bacon filled the kitchen. Harry got out three plates and a bowl.
"And don't burn the toast this time!"
"No, Aunt Petunia."
He piled rashers onto two of the plates, and added the rest in huge portions for the first - the second with about half the amount of the first. On the other plate he set a few slices of bread, and covered the plate with salads and balsamic vinegar.
"Done, Aunt Petunia!" he called to the bony woman, carrying through the three plates - one in each hand and the other on his right forearm - to the dining room.
"Thank you, Harry," she said, taking the meals and setting them down on the table. "I'll just go and wake Vernon and Dudley."
"No problem," Harry replied, going back to the kitchen and getting out some cereal, eating it in double quick time.
"Vernon! Dudley! Breakfast!"
From upstairs came the sounds of two beached whales climbing precariously out of bed. Well, that was a little on the unfair side, really. Although Vernon was still as fat and blubbery as ever, his son had trimmed up considerably since Harry had last seen him.
Dudley now stood at around 5'8", and had lost a considerable amount of weight. Or rather, converted it into muscle. He wasn't massive, but he had certainly lost his puppy fat and developed a strong and muscular body.
As the two made their way downstairs and into the dining room where their breakfast was, Harry - having satisfied his hunger with cereal - heard the clashing noise of mail through the letterbox.
Quickly yelling he'd get it, he picked it up off the floor and ripped it open with a letter opener, carrying both the envelope and the letter opener into the dining room.
"It's from Aunt Marge," Harry explained, handing it to Vernon. "She says she can't make it - Ripper's ill and Colonel Fubster's on holiday, so he can't look after the dogs."
"Thank you," Vernon grunted. "Shame. I was looking forward to swindling some more presents out of her. How much did she give us last year, Dudders? Around three hundred pounds worth?"
"Sounds about right, Dad," replied Dudley, munching his smaller breakfast portion. "But, if I'm really honest, it's good not to have her here this year."
"She can be a little overbearing sometimes, yes," Vernon agreed grudgingly. "But she's family after all."
"Family that can't stop mooning over a certain retired military colonel - unrequitedly, at that," Petunia stated. "And can't stop aggravating us in some way or another at every visit."
She looked pointedly at Harry.
The group sat in silence for a while, until - unable to wait any longer - Harry broke it. "Uncle Vernon - do you mind if I go for a walk? I just felt like getting out of the house for a while."
"Go ahead. Just don't come back too late, okay? We can't have you missing out on any meals, you're skinny enough as it is."
Harry nodded, and, putting on his battered trainers, walked to the door and opened it carefully.
"Hey, Harry!" Dudley shouted, struggling with his own shoes. "Mind if I join you?"
"Free country … supposedly."
"Dudley … I don't quite know how to say this - but why are you carrying around a boom box?" Harry asked his cousin a couple of minutes later.
"I always take it with me when I do exercise," Dudley said, as if that immediately explained it.
"Exercise?"
Harry was bewildered.
"You know … running, push ups - that sort of thing," Dudley said in a slightly mocking tone. "You do it to get fitter. How do you think I lost so much weight?"
"Since when did you work out?" Harry clarified.
"Since I joined the Rugby Union and Rugby Sevens teams at Smeltings," he explained. "So … about ten months ago, I suppose. They said if I wanted to make the first team, or even the bench, I'd have to get in shape. Boxing helped, but I've stopped that now, so I've got a regime worked out for non-training days."
"You play rugby?" Harry asked.
"Yep," Dudley replied proudly. "Started off as a prop, but since I've lost weight I've played mostly as a centre-half."
Harry raised his eyebrows, since, having watched the occasional rugby match with Vernon, he saw a huge difference in the positions. Props were large and bulky, designed only to steamroller through other players, while centre-halves combined power with speed to punch big holes in defences.
"I've been invited to play for Surrey Under-15s next season, you know," Dudley said.
"Congratula-"
"Ah!"
The cry came from around the street corner, and the pair sprinted round. There, on the pavement, they saw a small, fair-haired boy with his head ground into the dirt, held down by four or five larger boys.
"Oi! Get off him!" Dudley shouted, dropping his boombox and shoving the nearest one forcefully. Harry went for one of the others holding the kid down, and swung.
A loud crunch followed as Harry's fist collided with the boy's cheek. He couldn't tell if it was his hand or the boy's jaw, but still felt satisfied when he send the boy reeling.
Harry's head snapped to the side and blood poured from his broken nose. He fell with a thud to the floor, and saw Dudley being jumped by another two.
He lashed out with his left foot, hitting soft flesh and bringing a bully to his knees as he jumped up and connected with a vicious uppercut.
Dudley threw one of the ones on him off, and jabbed another, his fists reigning down on the boy. Harry rushed over and pulled the other down to the floor, grabbing him and punching as hard as he could.
They rolled around for about a minute before Harry got up, and kicked him once in the ribs for good measure, sending the boy scarpering.
"Yeah, you'd better run, Piers!" Dudley yelled after the bullies' retreating backs. "Bastard!"
Bruises already covered Dudley's face, but he was smiling nonetheless. "Hey, you alright, kid?"
The boy they had seen on the floor looked up, three large gaps in his teeth, and dried blood was splattered across his swollen and cut face. "Shit!" exclaimed Dudley. "Ewan?"
The boy - Ewan - groaned. "How bad is it?"
"Looks like you went to Ireland and back with a constantly exploding bomb in your face," Dudley remarked. "You look pretty fucked up, mate."
Ewan groaned again. He winced, trying to get up. "As long as I look pretty something, that's alright, I suppose. Who's your friend, D?"
Dudley had forgotten all about Harry. "Oh, this is my cousin Harry. Scrawny little bugger, but from the looks of it, he knows how to handle himself. Lives up in Scotland."
That wasn't quite true, but it wasn't far off. "Harry, meet one of my best friends, Ewan Clane, scrum-half at Smeltings."
The pair helped the struggling Ewan to his feet. "So what brought all this on, then?"
Ewan chuckled, before wincing again and clutching at his throbbing head. "Piers caught me with Gordon's ex - you know, Louise, the one Piers fancies - behind the wall at Waitrose."
Dudley whistled lowly. "Well that would do it," he said. "Nice job, mate."
Seeing Harry's confused look, he clarified. "Blonde, 100m county champion, blue eyes, big tits, nice arse, long legs …"
"She's hot, then," Harry said, eyes wide in surprise. "Well done."
Ewan smiled and winked. "Yeah, well … Piers went and told Gordon's mates, and they told him, so they tried to get me to back off. Or maybe back out is a better term."
"No fucking way," said Dudley, stunned. "You mean …"
"Nah, I'm just joking," Ewan's face split into a wide grin, which turned quickly into a grimace. "You know my mum would cut my bollocks off and hang them from the roof of the house if I did it before it's legal."
Dudley chuckled. "True. Your dad would probably give you a tenner though, and a pack of rubbers to go with it."
"Probably. Hey, d'you mind helping me home? My leg's a bit fucked, you know?" he looked down at the ripped skin and flesh on his right leg. The pair nodded, and each swung an arm over their shoulders as they limped him away, carrying the boom box between them.
Two hours or so later, after a little gentle administration of ice-packs and tape, the two cousins strolled home from Ewan's house.
"So, how long have you and Piers hated each other for? Last I knew, you were best mates," said Harry. "What changed?"
Dudley's face soured. "Bastard stole my girlfriend and humiliated me in public six months ago. Had four fights with him in school and twelve outside school since then."
"Sixteen fights?"
"At least," Dudley nodded. "That only counts full-blown ones, not confrontations. If it did, the number would be into well into the hundreds."
"Bloody hell," Harry said.
"Yeah," said Dudley. "It's a lot, I know, over such a small thing."
"Actually that's not what surprised me, 'D'."
Dudley looked at him curiously, not sure whether to be offended or not - probably, though.
"I didn't know you could say such big words. Confrontations - that's a long one."
Yep, definitely offended. "You cheeky bastard. I'll have you know," Dudley said, putting on a fake pompous air and wagging his finger at Harry. "That I've got the thirtieth highest mark in my year - out of hundred, no less."
"God, your school's full of thickos then, if you're thirtieth," Harry joked. "But your lying skills - sorry, I meant 'acting' - I must say have deteriorated. Last year, I might even have considered the possibility."
"Bite me."
"I try not to judge," Harry said, raising his hands and backing off a pace. "But that's kind of a weird fetish …"
"Hey! You've got problems, Harry," retorted Dudley.
"Like?" Harry asked amusedly.
"Like screaming out in the night."
Harry paled slightly. Then his grin resurfaced. "I can't help it if beautiful women come into my room and jump me, now can I?"
Dudley sighed and shook his head exasperatedly. "You're insufferable - you know that, don't you?"
Harry winked, and said proudly, "That's me, alright."
"Mum! We're back!"
Petunia came slowly into vision as Dudley slammed the door to the house. Some things will never change, Harry remarked to himself.
"Dudders, could you come with me, please? I'm just going shopping."
She gave Harry a pointed look, and subtly jerked her head in the direction of the living room, where he could hear low voices.
"Um … okay, Mum," Dudley said, looking at Harry in askance. He shrugged.
Petunia grabbed her son by the shoulder and wheeled him back out of the door. "What happened to your face, Dudders?" she asked concernedly outside, muffled by the door.
Harry walked into the next room, and saw a sight he had not expected. On the sofa sat his bloated uncle, a dark wood case about a metre long on his lap. Behind him stood Arthur Weasley, and beside him the twins and Ron, along with his trunks.
"Harry!"
"Ron! Fred! George! Mr. Weasley?"
Arthur looked at him sombrely. "We should leave you two to it. We'll talk to you when we leave, okay?"
With that, he and his three sons left the room.
"Harry, sit down, please. I need to talk to you."
"Okay?"
Vernon handed him the box. "This was my great-uncle's. I know we haven't really treated you the best, or been the kindest to you, but I want you to have it."
Harry flipped open the box. Inside, heavily wrapped in velvet casing, was a long, sleek rifle, with an iron butt and trigger, and beside it lay a two-foot bayonet, with another long box alongside that..
"You see, my great-great-uncle Thomas was an infantryman in the British Army. He fought under Sir Gerald Graham in the Mahdist War as a Private in the 42nd Highland Regiment of Foot - the Black Watch," Vernon said. "On the night of March 12 the British formed an encampment, not far from Osman Digna's positions. From around 1 o'clock until dawn, Mahdist riflemen approached the camp and opened fire, but their shooting was imprecise, and they inflicted few casualties."
"At dawn, the artillery was brought to bear against the Mahdist skirmishers and they were driven back. The infantry then formed into two infantry squares each of brigade-size and advanced. One square was commanded by Colonel Davis, with General Graham, and the other by Colonel Buller. A scouting party discovered that the main body of the Mahdist force was hidden in a nearby ravine, whereupon General Graham ordered the Black Watch to charge to clear those Mahdists out, leaving a wide gap where they had been stationed in the square. A sudden onslaught of Mahdists rushed into this gap."
"The Black Watch found themselves under intense attack from the Sudanese. The square was flooded with a rush of tribesmen and a brutal hand-to-hand fight resulted. The Black Watch eventually won the contest, driving the Sudanese out, and reforming their square."
"Finding themselves in danger of being cut off, the British units fell back in disarray but were quickly reformed in good order. The Mahdist advance was halted by volleys from the other square, which had survived the attack, and by dismounted cavalry units that had not been engaged until then. The concentrated flanking fire they inflicted caused huge casualties among the Mahdists, who were forced to retreat."
"The British units then reformed, and resumed their advance, driving the shaken Mahdists out of the ravine and inflicting more casualties on them as they fled."
"As a result of his participation in the action, he was awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery - one of only six known recipients of the medal in the Black Watch. About twenty years ago, on request of the Black Watch Museum, we gave his VC to the museum as a display."
Vernon wiped a tear from his ear. "This was his Snider-Enfield rifle. When he left the Army, he 'liberated' it from the stores, and carried it home. When he died childless, he left it to my grandmother - his sister. Since then it has been passed down and cherished."
Vernon sighed.
"From what I've heard about your world, this Voldemort bloke killed your parents. I won't pretend I was friends with them. I never was. But Petunia … she never got over her treatment of your mother. She'd want you to avenge them."
"I may not see eye to eye with many of your kind, but that doesn't mean they're all bad. But, considering how backwards they sound, technology-wise," Vernon continued, mumbling something about 'stupid weirdo redheads'.
Harry chuckled weakly. "Understatement of the century, that."
Vernon smiled wryly. "But considering that, it wouldn't surprise me if they haven't prepared for the weapons we have, or what we can do with them, and from I can gather this arsehole would be ashamed as all hell if he were to be hit with a round from one of these."
He patted the rifle gently. "If he comes back again, or any of his followers, I've got one thing to ask of you."
"What?"
Vernon smirked. "Make sure you kill the bastards - preferably with a camera handy to take a few pictures."
Harry snickered lowly.
"Now, these friends of yours are going to take you off to that World Cup thing you people watch, and I've given them joint guardianship with me and Petunia."
"Joint guardianship? Of what?"
"Of you, Harry. You need to grow up in your world, not ours. We'll always be there for you, as long as we live, but need to belong, and I've got a feeling you never will in this place."
Tears leaked down Harry's face. "I understand."
"Well, I guess this is it," Vernon said, getting to his feet, and reaching out to Harry. Harry stood, and they wrapped their arms around each other tightly. After a minute they separated, and Harry extended his hand to his uncle.
"Goodbye, Mr. Dursley. It's been a pleasure," he sniffed.
Vernon smiled sadly. "It's good to see you've picked up a few things off me over the years. Goodbye Mr. Potter. And good luck."
Harry's eye glistened once again. "You too, Uncle Vernon."
With that, he shut the case, picked it up, and walked slowly out the house.
Outside was the Weasleys' Ford Anglia, and Harry propped the case down in the boot, on top of his trunks and Hedwig's cage.
He shut the boot and opened the rear door, sliding in next to Ron. Hedwig, who had been resting on Ron's lap, nudged him gently.
"Looks like we're leaving, girl."
The engine revved into life, and the car drove slowly into the distance.
Harry looked back one last time. His uncle was stood in the frame of the front door, a proud look on his face. He gave Harry a small nod, before Harry turned the corner and out of sight.
"You make sure you get him, Harry," Vernon muttered. "For all of us."
The trip thus far in the car had been awkward, to say the least. There he had sat, with the rifle on his lap in its box. There he had wondered what had changed, and what had caused it. There he had sat, for the first time in his life, missing them. Missing the Dursleys. His family.
Dudley, with his recent banter. Vernon, with his recent tolerance. Petunia, for her recent kindness.
Harry sighed.
"So ..." Fred said, soon accompanied by his twin. "Who do you think will win the Quidditch League this season?"
The silence was broken and with it his melancholy. "Well," Harry said, a grin making its way onto his face. "I can bet that it won't be the Cannons!"
The rest of the car ride went by in a flash of verbal sparring, laughter, and japes until a house loomed into sight. That is if it could be described as a house. Like on his very first visit, Harry was stunned.
In all its glorious splendour, the Burrow appeared like magic. It still looked as if it could have once been a large stone pigpen, with more than a few extra rooms added on. In fact, he was convinced that it had grown. It still looked like an absolute death-trap, quite possibly because it was a death-trap.
But he still loved it, and grinned again, his face splitting from ear to ear.
He loved it even more when Mrs. Weasley burst forth from the front door and pulled him into the tightest, warmest hug he had ever felt. He felt truly wanted. He felt at home. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of red hair and a certain shy girl, Ron's sister. Percy stumbled into the garden soon after and offered his hand pompously to him, which Harry took only slightly reluctantly. Ginny just glanced awkwardly at him and looked away just as quickly.
The tiny kitchen exploded with laughter. Harry looked around and saw that Ron and George were sitting at the scrubbed wooden table with two red-haired people that Harry had never seen before, though he knew immediately who they must be: Bill and Charlie, the two eldest Weasley brothers.
"How're you doing, Harry?" said the nearer of the two, grinning at him and holding out a large hand, which Harry shook, feeling calluses and blisters under his fingers. This had to be Charlie, who worked with dragons in Romania. Charlie was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it.
Bill got to his feet, smiling, and also shook Harry's hand. Bill came as something of a surprise. Harry knew that he worked for the wizarding bank, Gringotts and that Bill had been Head Boy at Hogwarts; Harry had always imagined Bill to be an older version of Percy: fussy about rule-breaking and fond of bossing everyone around. However, Bill was — there was no other word for it — cool. He was tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it. Bill's clothes would not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry recognized his boots to be made, not of leather, but of dragon hide.
"So, how is Curse-Breaking? And Dragon-Keeping? They both sound bloody dangerous to me!"
He received a wry chuckle from the pair, who eyed each other and said, "You have no idea, kiddo."
He grunted. A trickle of water ran down his back, and the shower began to cleanse his dirty body. Harry sighed in relief. It was blissful. A few minutes later, he stepped out from the shower and wrapped his lower body in a towel. His hair dripped on the wooden floor of the bathroom, so he reached for another towel.
He dried his hair vigorously, but whenever he thought he had done, the moisture just seemed to return. Giving it up as a bad job, he ran his hand through his damp jet hair and smoothed it back as much as he could. He snorted. As if it would ever lie still!
Ah well. With that recent failure in mind, Harry made his way back to Ron's room to get changed. A pair of baggy jogging trousers and an equally droopy tank top - both of a disinteresting grey that made a typical English winter sky look appealing - later, Harry tentatively made his way downstairs, taking as much care as possible to avoid the squeaky steps. The kitchen was deserted. He looked around him just to make sure and headed outside into the grassy garden of the Burrow, with the small village of Ottery St. Catchpole in the distance.
A vague pink light spun around the orchard and the crops surrounding the house as he breathed in the cool, refreshing morning air. He set off on a light run around the house and inhaled the sparkling dew of the night, his feet pounding against the ground. If Dudley could do it, he could. However, within minutes, his lungs were full of fire and his legs burned with lactic acid. God almightly, he was unfit. "Fuck me sideways ..." Harry panted.
"I'd rather not, thanks," came an amused voice from behind, causing him to jump.
"But thanks for the offer nonethless," said an identical one, making him jump once again.
"Christ, could you not fucking do that please! I'm going to need a change of boxers at this rate!"
"And that, dear Harold, is why one should always go commando," the twins said snootily, a pair of perfectly twirled ginger moustaches appearing on each twin's upper lip. "After all, one never knows when one might get desperate."
Harry gaped. "How?"
The two winked. "Magic, Harry. Magic."
So, what do you think?
I know I said I wouldn't write anything other than 'Where Your Treasure Is', but with this, I just couldn't help it. I do plan to continue this, as I do with 'Where Your Treasure Is'.
Anyway, thank you so much for reading - feedback is welcome, as it really helps fuel my writing.
I hope you enjoyed, and - dare I say it - until next time ... bye!