Vanna Rose, the Stone & the Chamber
Vanna is eleven years old when she realises she doesn't know herself very well. For starters, she's a witch, and not only that but a dark-wizard-defeating infant and, on top of it all, the Sorting Hat insists she's a Slytherin. (AU, Girl-Who-Lived)
Hi!... Just a few details before I begin...
Okay, so I'm totally new to the Harry Potter fandom but I can safely presume this concept has been done a thousand times before. So yes, I am rewriting the story of Harry Potter, only slightly differently, with a female lead. Sorry if that bores you. Essentially, this is an alternate universe version of Harry Potter in which the events of canon are molded to suit my own little fantasies. It's all designed to make me feel a little better about Ms Rowling making me bawl my eyes out during Deathly Hallows.
Oh, and advanced warning to James x Lily shippers – you probably won't enjoy this story.
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I plan to write the tale of this alternate universe in the following fashion...
1. Vanna Rose, the Stone & the Chamber (that's this one – yay!)
Includes introductions and events from Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets.
2. Vanna Rose, the Godfather & the Goblet
Includes events from Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire.
3. Vanna Rose, the Order & the Prince
Includes events from Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince
4. Vanna Rose, the Horcruxes & the Hallows
Includes events from Deathly Hallows, but does not include epilogue.
5. Untitled
Post-war years from 1998 until approximately 2000/2001.
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Other future possibilities include...
1. Marauders Era (prologue/back-story spanning from 1975-1981)
2. Next Generation (Hogwarts years of the Next Gen kids, beginning from 2017)
3. Crossover (Vanna visits the canon-universe and meets Harry)
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Disclaimer... Obviously, I do not own Harry Potter. Direct quotes and paraphrased passages will, of course, be used throughout this story and all of which belong to J.K. Rowling.
The Girl Who Lived
November, 1981
Privet Drive, nestled away in Little Whinging, Surrey, was peaceful and hushed beneath the gray and cloudy November skies. A calm breeze rustled leaves in the trees and swayed the perfectly trimmed hedges lining the suburban landscape. In the yard of number sixteen two birds chirped in anticipation of the coming sunrise and sitting on the fence of number four, a tabby cat swished its tail in careful motions. At precisely five o'clock the slim figure of a man, dressed in purple robes, appeared from thin air on the street corner. The tabby cat ceased swishing its tail and watched intently.
The tall man with seemingly luminous silver hair, long silver beard and sparkling blue eyes, rummaged within the pockets of his floor-length cloak. He pulled out, some moments later, a slim tubular object no larger than a cigarette that glinted beneath the street-light. The tabby cat narrowed its eyes for brief moments before the first whizzing pop sounded, and the closest street lamp flickered into darkness. The man continued to hold the silver object into the air until every last light disappeared, rendering the neighbourhood completely devoid of light save for the oncoming orange tinge of sunrise.
"Fancy seeing you here," the man spoke, directly addressing the cat. "Professor McGonagall."
Professor McGonagall now sat upon the fence of number four; stern-faced and immaculately put together in emerald robes. She appeared gravely displeased. "How did you know it was me?" she asked.
Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled; he smoothed his purple robes and sat beside his colleague. "My dear Professor," he said. "I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall since yesterday morning." stated Professor McGonagall.
Dumbledore appeared mildly surprised. "Since yesterday morning?" he asked. "When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
Professor McGonagall stiffened. "Not everybody is celebrating." she said pointedly. Dumbledore's eyes were briefly bereft of a twinkle. "As for those who are, 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 inclined her head toward the living room of number four. "I heard it. Flocks of owls, shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid; they were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle, he never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," offered Dumbledore 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."
She directed a sharp, sideways glance toward Dumbledore, who remained silent.
"I suppose you will do nothing to deny them..." she prompted sternly. "Despite the fact that You-Know-Who has really gone, at last."
"We have much to be thankful for." he responded vaguely. "Would you care for a lemon drop?"
Professor McGonagall frowned. "A what?"
"A lemon drop." repeated Dumbledore. "They're a Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"No, thank you." answered Professor McGonagall coldly; clearly disapproving of the subject change. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone-"
"My dear Professor," interrupted Dumbledore, who was reaching into his pockets. "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 plainly flinched. Dumbledore paid her reaction no mind and continued to rummage around his cloak pockets, searching for the aforementioned lemon drops. He extracted two, stuck tightly together, and began to slowly separate them.
"It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'." he continued, "I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."
"I know you haven't," frowned Professor McGonagall. It was evident how exasperating she was finding the conversation. "But you're different. Everybody knows you're the only one You-Know- Oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."
Dumbledore remained focussed upon the lemon drops. "You flatter me," he said, calmly as ever. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too – well – noble to use them."
"It's lucky it's dark." Dumbledore informed her, blue eyes sparkling in earnest. "I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
Professor McGonagall directed another sharp look in his direction, evidently in no mood for nonchalant humour. "You know what everyone's saying?" she asked bluntly, "About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
In the pale glow of sunrise, she bore the full weight of her piercing stare upon the man. He remained silent, only moving to finally separate the lemon drops and place one into his mouth.
"What they're saying," she urged." Is that last night Voldemort found the cottage in Godric's Hollow. They are saying that Lily, James and Harry are... that they're dead."
Dumbledore remained silent; his expression made the answer apparent. There was a sharp gasp from Professor McGonagall in response.
"Lily, James, little Harry. I cannot believe it," she said. "I didn't want to believe it... Oh, what-"
"I know." Interrupted Dumbledore, he extended his palm to pat her upon the shoulder. "I know."
Professor McGonagall pressed on. "That's not all." her voice trembled, "They're saying he tried to kill her... poor, innocent little girl – but he couldn't. Voldemort could not kill her and nobody knows why, or how, and his power somehow broke. That's why he's gone."
Once again, his silence served to confirm her fears. His head bowed; countenance rueful.
"It- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed, he couldn't kill a little girl? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did she survive?"
"We can only guess," answered Dumbledore mysteriously. "We may never know."
Professor McGonagall produced a delicate lace handkerchief from her sleeve and began to dab at her teary eyes. In the meantime, Dumbledore sat beside her inspecting a curious golden watch with all of twelve hands, no numbers and shifting planets surrounding the edge.
"Hagrid's late." announced Dumbledore. "I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"
"Yes." said Professor McGonagall, having regained much of her composure. She tucked the handkerchief away and faced the older man once more. "And I don't suppose you'd like to explain why here, of all places?"
"I've come to bring our little survivor to her aunt and uncle." stated Dumbledore carefully, as though he expected opposition. "They're the only family she has left now."
Professor McGonagall was instantly on her feet. "Liar!" she scolded. "And these, of all people? I've watched them all day, such people to raise her! And their son, I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. You cannot possibly allow her to be raised here!"
"It's the best place for her," said Dumbledore firmly. Professor McGonagall looked as though she wished to argue, but did not. "Her aunt will be able to explain everything to her once she is older. I will see to it that she does so correctly."
"Correctly?" repeated Professor McGonagall suspiciously. She sat back down upon the wall and narrowed her eyes again. "I suppose, Albus, that you'll be ensuring she remembers things your way? Do you intend to confund or obliviate her?" she asked sternly, "There will be consequences. That girl will be famous – a legend – I wouldn't be surprised if they named today in her honour. Books will be written about her and every child in our world will know her name. It will become difficult to conceal the truth eventually, Dumbledore, and you'll have a lot to answer for!"
"Indeed, I will." agreed Dumbledore solemnly. "And I can only hope for their forgiveness when such a time comes. As for now, this arrangement is for the best. Surely you can understand the reasons?"
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, poised to disagree, but ultimately changed her mind. "Yes – yes, you're right, of course." she didn't appear as agreeable as her words sounded. "But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore?"
"Hagrid's bringing her."
"You think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life."
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place." said Professor McGonagall grudgingly. "But you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to-"
She paused suddenly, mid-sentence, as a low rumbling sound echoed throughout the serene lull of Privet Drive. It disturbed the singing birds at number sixteen, who promptly flew away.
"What was that?" she asked Dumbledore.
In the distance, the rumbling grew steadily louder until, eventually, a large motorcycle appeared to plunge down toward the road in front of the two robed colleagues. Professor McGonagall scanned the area for onlookers cautiously, clearly relieved to find none. The man driving the motorbike, twice the size of any average human-being both in height and weight, pushed back a tangled mane of bushy black hair from his face.
"Hagrid." Dumbledore greeted the man, sounding relieved. "At last. Where did you get that motorcycle?"
Hagrid leaned forward, scooping up a tiny bundle of blankets and dismounting the motorcycle. "Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir." he explained, "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got her, sir."
"No problems, were there?"
"No, Sir." Hagrid shook his head, "She fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall stepped forward in tandem; peering over the bundle of blankets. Inside the warm blankets rest a little girl, merely a year old, with her tiny fists balled and eyes shut tight. She rolled slightly, a tendril of glistening jet-black hair falling aside to reveal a curiously shaped cut that appeared to be the shape of a lightning bolt.
"Is that where-?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes." confirmed Dumbledore. "She'll have that scar forever."
Professor McGonagall's gaze remained fixated upon the mark. "Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't." said Dumbledore, "Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well, give her here Hagrid, I'd best get this over with."
Dumbledore carefully eased the girl from Hagrid's arms, cradling her gently. It had become significantly brighter outside and he turned toward the home of the young girl's relatives. Hagrid stumbled forward as he moved, letting out a wounded howl.
"Shh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll alert the Muggles – the sun's already rising as it is."
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, he took out a large spotted handkerchief and buried his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it – James an' Lily an' 'Arry dead – an' poor little-"
"Hagrid." interjected Dumbledore evenly.
Professor McGonagall shook her head, "Yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll attract unnecessary attention."
Hagrid made another strangled noise as Dumbledore ascended the pathway toward the front door. Professor McGonagall attempted to comfort the large man with a gingerly pat on the arm.
"Hagrid." said Dumbledore. "Perhaps you should return the bike to Mr. Black."
"Yeah." agreed Hagrid, voice muffled. "I'll take it right back. G'night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, Sir."
Dumbledore nodded, as Hagrid wiped away his remaining tears upon his jacket sleeve and swung himself onto the borrowed motorbike. It roared to life loudly, although amazingly nobody from the quiet neighbourhood appeared to hear it, and jolted into the skies. Hagrid disappeared into the sunrise moments later.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall." said Dumbledore next. He nodded in her direction, as though indicating she was free to leave. Professor McGonagall stood firm, narrowing her eyes in response. Instead of arguing, Dumbledore let out a resigned sigh and knocked upon the wooden door of number four.
In her slumber, the little girl within the blankets waved her small fist and sniffled softly, entirely unaware of her impending fate. A slim blonde woman, with a resigned expression and neatly styled hair, answered the door.
"Mrs. Dursley," said Dumbledore, "I need you to listen very closely to what I say..."
Petunia Dursley looked from the unmistakable child within the blankets, across to the green-robed woman and promptly back to purple-robed man. She screamed in horror.