Hello wonderful people! Welcome to What Could Have Been, an AU Lily/James story of what would have happened if she grew up with the Potter's. As with all authors, reviews are appreciated, and I hope you like the story. Also, please note: while the rating is probably over cautious, there will be some violence and mentions of abuse. Very little, if anything vivacious.
Enjoy the story.
Chapter One
James Potter was a special child. This did not only refer to the fact that he came from an old and inordinately wealthy family and was spoiled beyond the dreams of most boys his age, but that he was different.
That is to say, he was a wizard.
His family was the end of a very long line of notable and respected purebloods, descended from Godric Gryffindor himself, and as such, while he never regarded himself to be better than those of non-magical birth, he had a certain smug arrogance that comes with knowing that the magical world truly exists, and that he was a part of it.
Born March 27th, 1960, James was a rather good looking boy, even at the tender age of eleven (though his devilish personality certainly left something to be desired). And while he could be serious if the occasion called for it, James believed that nothing in the world could shake his certainty that making his parents scream in frustration was the most interesting thing in the world.
But little did he know, the strange events of May 2nd, 1971, would change his life forever.
Parents are stupid, eleven year old James Potter thought to himself unhappily on a brisk May morning.
He moodily kicked a sharp rock with his left foot, regretting it instantly as a blinding pain lanced its way up his ankle. He bit back a curse that he knew his mother wouldn't approve of and hopped on one foot in pain.
He glared hard at the offending rock through wire rimmed glasses, then seemed to realize how silly he appeared and he immediately looked in the other direction, a slight red flush on his cheeks as he checked if anyone had seen him. For even at eleven years old, James Potter did not like to be made fun of. Ever.
Upon seeing there was no one upon the extensive grounds of his family's large manor, James continued on his path toward the old swing set, the last vestiges of pain leaving him.
The reason for his annoyance and subsequent jaunt through the rainy forest was currently residing some distance away, in the form of an exasperated Dorea Potter.
No Quidditch for a month! James scowled harder and let out a small growl of frustration. While he didn't deny that he deserved some punishment for his actions (no matter how entertaining Augusta Longbottom's face was when her tea turned out to be spiked with a color-changing potion and turned her hair neon pink), but he considered the threat of no Quidditch to be clearly below the belt.
Besides, he knew that deep down his mother was entertain by his actions, and frankly, Augusta scared him, and he thought that she might be more approachable if she lightened up a bit. Clearly this was not the case.
James reached the swing set and sank forlornly into the rusty metal seat. It was one of the only Muggle items the Potters owned, and something about its presence, and maybe the fact that it didn't belong in this world at all, comforted James.
He knew there would be hell to pay when he mustered up the courage to go back home. He'd walked out on his mother in the middle of an argument, and while Dorea may have carried the Potter name for well over a decade, she was still first and foremost a Black, and they were all frightening, crazy, nutters. (Not that he'd ever say that to her face. He didn't have a death wish.)
"How am I supposed to get through the rest of the year until I go to Hogwarts with no Quidditch?" he wondered aloud, the rain lightly fogging up his glasses.
This may have seemed like a shallow and selfish concern for him to have, especially considering that the magical community was in the middle of a terrible war with a dark wizard named Lord Voldemort (or, as most reffered to him these days: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named), but he was an adolescent boy whose world consisted of mostly pranks, toys, and interesting social events, so he could not be blamed for his naïve innocence.
James wound a hand through the creaky chain and stared at the ground. To him, there was no greater catastrophe in the world.
Wind rustled through the trees, blowing a fine mist over the landscape, and James shivered. In the midst of his outrage, he'd spared no thought about where he might be going, and as such was only wearing a thin T-shirt that did nothing to keep out the chill.
Night was falling quickly, and the grey afternoon was replaced by a velvety twilight.
A ghostly breeze danced along his spine as the moon rose.
James looked up in slight trepidation. He could feel…something. He knew that something was about to happen, something big.
His instincts were usually spot on, so he didn't think he should start ignoring them now.
So he waited. And waited. And waited some more.
Nothing happened.
James sighed, shifting on the swing. I'm going to be in such major trouble when I get home, staying out this late, he thought. But I'll stay a while longer. His nerves were tingling like crazy.
A few minutes later he stood. Nothing was going to happen, and it was getting late.
James looked east, where he could almost see the lights from Potter Manor. "Well, no use prolonging the inevitable," he said aloud. He was sure to get a sound tongue-lashing from his mother no matter what time of day or night he came in.
He'd just taken his first step when a phantom wind tore through the clearing, somehow unsettling in its suddeness.
He paused, looking around himself, then—
CRASH.
A bright light filled the clearing, and then out of nowhere, a person dropped on his head.
James dived to the side, his Quidditch instincts taking over.
He hit the ground with a groan, feeling the mysterious person draped rather heavily across his legs.
He sat up cautiously. The glow had faded. Everything looked completely normal. Except for, you know, the fact that a person had appeared out of bloody thin air when it was impossible to do so on the Potter Estate.
James wasn't easily startled, a by product of growing up surrounded by magic, but even he couldn't say he was entirely comfortable with the situation. It wasn't everyday that mysterious people dropped onto you from the sky.
James carefully shifted himself from underneath the person, then leaned over to check on their apparently unconscious form.
He couldn't see much in the half light, but he could just about make out a long mane of red hair.
With a sense of slight curiosity, James reached out and rolled the mysterious person over—
And almost instantly scrambled away with a barely repressed groan.
The mysterious person was a girl.
It wasn't that he didn't like girls—he did! But at his age, he considered girls to be a separate life form. Even his parents exchanging a kiss on the cheek made him want to scream 'Yuck' and run away as fast as he could. Actually trying to approach a girl—that was pure torture. His father assured him he'd get over his fear of girls soon enough. James wasn't quite sure he believed him.
Swallowing slightly with repressed nausea, James looked over the girl again.
If he'd been a few years older, he would've noticed just how pretty she was, about his age, with delicate porcelain features and long auburn hair, but as it was, all he could think about was that she probably didn't play Quidditch.
Oh, the life of an eleven year old boy.
Gathering what remained of his courage (You want to be a Gryffindor, don't you, he reminded himself), James leaned forward and tentatively shook the girl's shoulder.
"Hey, get up," he said. The girl didn't respond.
He shook her harder, slightly annoyed now.
She let out a light groan and her eyelashes flickered.
James huffed and put his arm behind her back to try to push her up.
It didn't work.
James sat back and stared at her nettled. And it may have been his imagination, but it looked like the girl's face was even paler than before.
"Honestly," James said. "What is wrong with you?"
He looked at her for a moment, then felt something slightly sticky on the hand supporting the girl's back.
He pulled it out, examining it absently, only to pull back and stare in shock at the substance coating it, which was quite obviously blood.
He twisted and looked at the girl, whose face seemed go be getting paler with each passing moment.
Hands shaking slightly, James reached over and gently turned her onto her stomach.
He swallowed down bile as he stared at the the ruined, bloody mess that was this girl's back.
He breathed in deeply, trying not to be sick at the coppery scent of blood.
Once he had his nausea under control he regarded her as calmly as he could (which wasn't very calm).
"I have to get you to the house," he said aloud. The girl didn't answer (not that he expected her to).
James clenched his jaw, then, careful to avoid her back, leaned over and picked the girl up off the ground.
He grunted slightly at her weight, even though she wasn't very heavy, and he could clearly feel her ribs through the thin pajama's she was wearing.
This frightened him slightly.
"You're going to be fine," he said aloud, not quite sure who he was talking to. "You're going to be fine," he repeated. "Just hold on."
And as he set off toward the house, whether he realized it or not, his life had just changed irrivocably.