Samuel Potter
The Hogwarts Years
By KingdomHeartsNerd
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, all related concepts and anything you recognise do not belong to me, I am merely borrowing them to bring you this story - and for my own personal enjoyment - as they actually belong to the awesomeness that is J.K. Rowling. Any OC's and things you do not recognise, however, are copyrighted to me, KingdomHeartsNerd.
Rating: K
Pairings: N/A
Genre: Adventure/Friendship/Family/Drama
Warnings: Please do not flame me for anything. I really do not care what the flamers have to say and if you don't like this story, then why in the name of Merlin's saggy left butt cheek are you reading it? Go and do something else instead of wasting the precious time of both of us.
Summary: We all know the story of how Harry Potter destroyed the Dark Lord; but what about Sam Potter? Harry Potter's younger twin brother who played a vital role in the destruction of Voldemort? Join Harry and Sam as they embark on the adventure of a lifetime, making friends and enemies... and maybe... a little romance?
Dedicated To: Everyone who has reviewed - if I listed you all, like I was doing, the list would eventually be longer than the chapter, so I'll do it this way. Your reviews mean the world to me and I hope that you all remain loyal reviewers as this story continues.
Shout Outs: Shout outs to everyone who favourited this story - if I thanked you all the list would be huge, so I'll do it this way.
Thank You: Thank you to xXxKaraBeckerCutterxXx for believing I could do this. If you like this story, show her some love and review this story and either (or all) of her Harry Potter Stories: The Dark Lord's Downfall and the Muggleborn Witches Series.
Chapter I
November 1st, 1980
The early morning of Tuesday the first of November 1981 was quiet; wind blew through the trees on the quiet lane, a tabby cat leaped off of the wall, scurried across the road and slinked down the path, it's eyes reflected by the moon; one of the Muggles - non-magic folk - who were returning from a night of candy collecting on Halloween, leaned down and stroked the cat, who purred; the muggle, a chubby boy who looked to be no more than ten, placed a piece of candy down in front of the cat, hugged the cat, and then trotted off, blissfully unaware of anything odd, extraodrinary or strange that was going on.
None of the Muggles could possibly have known of the strange events that would be occuring, and, as the last of the Muggles disappeared inside their house, the cat grabbed the piece of candy in its mouth, streaked down the lane, leaped over the fence and settled itself on the bin in the park.
As the chubby boy drifted off into an uneasy, candy filled sleep, the cat on the bin outside showed no signs of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, it's eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of the park. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed in the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight when the cat moved at all.
The street fell deathly quiet for a moment, and then, as if like magic, a man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen in the lane, or the park for that matter. He was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots were unwelcome, or if he did realise it, he certainly didn't care.
Instead, he was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realise he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the park. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."
He had found what he was looking for inside his pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again – the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs Tobiasonford of Number 75, which was directly opposite the park, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the park, where he sat down on the wall behind the bin on which the cat resided. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it was gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape the cat had had around its eyes and was now holding the piece of candy in her hand. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff too if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall, unwrapping the candy.
"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
"Oh, yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no – even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back towards the dark living-room window of Number 75. "I heard it earlier. Flocks of owls ... shooting stars down in Kent – I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," Dumbledore said gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumours. Even Filius was out! I'll be having words with him tomorrow!"
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore, as though hoping he would tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on: "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles have found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"
"A what?"
"A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"No, thank you, I have my own" said Professor McGonagall coldly, popping her candy into her mouth and looking at Dumbledore as though she didn't think this was the moment for sherbet lemons. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone – "
"My dear professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name. All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense – for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort."
Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unstacking two sherbet lemons, didn't seem to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. I have never been frightened of saying Voldemort's name."
"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know – oh, all right, Voldemort – was frightened of."
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too – well – noble to use them."
"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed this much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now.
It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up at Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are – are – that they're – dead."
"That, thankfully, is not true. It would have been were it not for Sirius's quick actions; he was able to send a Patronus to Godric's Hollow and was able to warn them. They were able to hold off Voldemort long enough - though he did immobilise them - before he was defeated."
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potters' son, Harry. But – he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke – and that's why he's gone."
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
"It's – it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done ... all the people he's killed ... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding ... of all the things to stop him ... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know. The only thing we know - from the testimony of Lily and James - is that Voldemort, after immobilising them, attacked Harry; he was defeated and they were able to take Harry and the boys to Potter Manor before Godric's Hollow exploded. James's mother was there to meet them and deal with her grandchildren while Lily and James informed the Minister of Sirius's true loyalties and his actions."
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes under her spectacles; whether the tears were from joy at Voldemort's defeat or from sadness at the attack on the Potters, Dumbledore couldn't tell. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said "I suppose it was Hagrid who told you I'd be here, by the way?"
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"
"I'm just on my way to visit the Potters now, as it happens - I thought meeting here would be easier - no disturbances, you see? - and I was wondering if you wanted to come along?"
"No," said Professor McGonagall. "No. I had best return to the school and tell the staff what has happened."
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the park. On the corner of the park he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that the lane glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street.
He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of the lane, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen.
Meanwhile, at Potter Manor, Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the teddy bear beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by his mother as she woke him for his breakfast, nor that he would spend the next few weeks having his twin pour his breakfast over him... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were raising their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter – the boy who lived!"
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