Welcome to the odd-sock drawer. This is where I will host my drabbles/abandoned stuff. I know I can't hold anyone to any threats, but I'd much rather people don't lift ideas without giving me a warning. Most of these will be ones I have no interest in continueing, but I'd love to see someone else do it.

These will probably all be un-betaed, and there will be no update schedule. This is my sandpit.

As normal : I don't own Harry Potter. That would be JKR's. I don't own plenty of other things I've drawn inspiration from. But I will mention those as they come up. I read a lot of fanfiction, so I may have read yours. If you feel you wrote something I used, message me, and if I have previously read yours, I'll give you the credit you deserve.

To start off with, a religiously raised Harry. This is named 'Calling'

French is in italics, and this is laid back. Go with the flow.

Enjoy

The boy sat in the dirt, snow falling around him. If anyone had been there to ask what he felt, he wouldn't have known how to answer, for this life was all the boy knew. He had been living; no, make that surviving; on the streets for four weeks now. As far as he was aware, this was better than The Cupboard. At least outside, he didn't get hit. At least outside, he could find companionship – the birds in the trees would come down and sit on his legs as he woke up, singing their praises to the sun.

The night was getting cold, and dark. The boy could see a light, at the end of the road. He didn't know this area. But lights were good, weren't they? He made his way into the light, and lay in the archway. Soon, the cold and the stone and the light would accompany him into his dreams.

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The Father went to the doors, opening them before any of the congregation would be coming for morning mass. He did not see the snow covered view he had been expecting, instead, a small boy, no older than five at the very most, lay on the floor, the snow completely missing from the ground around him. But that was not all, birds, large and small, stood all over and around him, their silent vigil unbroken by the priest.

The small boy stirred, and spoke to them "Thank you brothers. Fly well". And all of them left, a susurrus of wings breaking the unnatural quiet. The priest stood for a moment, and seeing the child not move, bent down, and picked him up. The poor child was almost skin and bones in his arms!

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Father Michael gazed out of the window at Francis. The boy was doing better now, and no longer flinched whenever people entered the same room, even though he still refused to speak of his past. He was now about ten, his birthday (or at least the anniversary of the day he was found) had passed several months ago, and he was now sitting in the churchyard, reading aloud out of The Bible, surrounded by all sorts of creatures. Birds sat with the local cats, who sat with the mice, all of them unmoving, listening to Francis' voice.

"and let birds fly above the earth across the vault of the sky – that's you, did you know?" He looked to the sparrow on his shoulder, and it chirruped back at him, before turning its dark eyes back to the Bible in Francis' hands

The Father shook his head silently, he had always known, from the day he took the boy in, that Francis was special. But to see this – the boy following completely in the footsteps of his namesake – was astounding. Francis had always liked the company of animals, preferred in fact to people, but it was only today that he had started reading to them, and Francis' shining green eyes showed just how much he loved all the life around him.

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Michael looked through the door, expecting to see Francis asleep, or at the very least, in bed. Instead, Francis was on his knees, his hands clenched tight, his mouth moving silently. Michael smiled to himself, happy the boy had been saved. He paused a minute, to watch the boy, and was amazed as a soft golden glow spread across the room, emanating from the child. Unheard voices whispered behind him, but he stood, transfixed, the glow growing brighter as Francis prayed. A soft wind played across the room, and Francis' hair stirred lazily in it.

Francis stood, the wind still playing, and the glow still shone. The boy slipped into his bed, and Michael left, humbled by what he had been allowed to witness.

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"ALBUS! GET YOUR BONY ASS IN HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!" Albus paled in his chair. If McGonagall was using that kind of language, he had obviously done something very, very wrong. "Albus... Think very carefully before you answer this, but why is Mr Potter not in the book of students for this year..." McGonagall tailed off dangerously.

"My dear Minerva, I'm sure it was just a malfunction, come with me, we shall go find the boy immediately. " Albus stood, and with a twirl of his wand, his splendid robes were changed into a pinstriped suit, albeit a purple one. He tucked a golden pocketwatch into his breast pocket, and helf out an elbow for Minerva. "Shall we floo to Bella's, my dear?"

The two school teachers dusted themselves off in Arabella Figg's living room, and strode out the house, Albus guiding Minerva down to number four, privet drive.

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Francis sat in the churchyard, staring up into the sky. A few birds were skawking in the trees surrounding him, but that was not what had his attention. No, the haired child was gazing on a white speck, growing larger and larger each second. He held up his arm, and the speck fell, revealing a snowy owl, quite small and young, that perched on his wrist. With a bark, she settled herself down.

"Hello there, pretty one. I'm called Francis. Who are you?" The owl barked at him again. "You've come for me?" Surprised didn't begin to cover what Francis felt – an owl, coming out of nowhere, and apparently, she was his. "Well then, we shall have to name you. How about after my patron saint? Would that work for you girl?"

The owl seemed to consider for a moment, before bobbing its head, and barking loudly. Michael looked out of his window, and could only smile, the boy really did get on with animals rather well.

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Of course I threw the freak out, he was a danger to us, to our way of life! Don't look at like that, oyu know perfectly well what I mean! You left him here, giving us no choice in the matter, no guidance, and suddenly, all these strange things happen here. I came home one night, and there he was in the kitchen, floating knives round the room, couldn't stand that sort of unnaturalness.

I don't know, probably cooking I suppose. Of course he did, had to earn his keep somehow!

What do you take me for, one of your lot? No, I gave him some food, a jumper, and then made him leave. He was a danger, don't you people get it? What if he had dropped those knives on my son? You said a killer was after him, you think I want that sort attracted here? You're barmier than you look.

No, that's enough. I've had it with you. Leave, now. Don't bother coming back.

Stupid wizards. This is MY house.

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And Francis grew up. He attended a normal school, and achieved reasonably high grades. He worked hard, and diligently, and if anything odd ever happened around him, that was perfectly acceptable. The teachers had been forewarned by Father Michael about what could happen around Francis, and whilst none of them had initially believed, the warm feeling they all got following the first assembly of the year was rather new, and helped settle many of the children.

Of course, Hedwig caused a stir as well. But as Francis refused to be parted from her, and she was rather intelligent, and never made a mess, so the teachers and students at St Cantius' eventually relaxed. Francis, with Hedwig on his shoulder, soon stopped even being an oddity, and faded into the background of school life.

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"Well then Quirinus, I must say I am surprised. Of all the defence professors we have had, not a single one until now has managed to break the so-called curse, how on earth did you manage it? Actually my dear boy, don't tell me, let me figure it out for myself, I always did love a nice riddle."

"O-of course H-H-Headmaster, m-m-m-may I ask how much long-g-g-ger you wish to keep that t-t-t-troll I found for you?"

"Oh my dear Quirinus, I'm sorry to say I may need it for quite some time, that is alright, isn't it?". Quirinus nodded, his turban bobbing with him. It had been a quiet year, and Lord Voldemort had decided that without Potter, it was not worth rushing to get the stone. Oh, he would get it! But it need not be now, not with such a willing host. And when he finally took the stone, he would make sure none were the wiser. None at all...

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Francis breather deeply, the cool cavern air around him calming his thoughts. But this was it, the cavern at Lourdes. Having passed all his GCSEs with flying colours, Father Michael had arranged for him to take a trip abroad, to learn and to meet new people. And Francis was loving it. A beautiful girl, perhaps a year younger, stood next to him. Her silvery blonde hair and her deep blue eyes were breath-taking.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" she asked of him, looking out across the cavern.

"Yes, I almost can't believe I'm here. I'm Francis Temple, may I ask of your own name?" She giggled, and looked up at him, her silvery eyelids fluttering.

"I am Gabrielle Delacour, but to you, I..." She caught herself, and looked at Francis' scar, the one that had never healed. Shaped like a lightning bolt, he had always been fascinated by it, and kept his hair cut short, always showing it. "I do believe you may be famous, Francis, come with me, let me explain."

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"You mean to tell me I'm a wizard? My 'gifts' are not that, but magic?"

"Yes, and no. No other wizard I have ever met has ever had the ability to talk with the animals such as yourself Francis, but that is not all. Your real name is Harry Potter, you are incredibly wealthy, and you are THE most sought after celebrity in our world. After your supposed death at the hands of your relatives, our entire world has been looking for you, and it must be pure chance none of us had found Your real name is Harry Potter, you are incredibly wealthy, and you are THE most sought after celebrity in our world. After your supposed death at the hands of your relatives, our entire world has been looking for you, and it must be pure chance none of us had found you. Until now." Francis was shocked. Gabrielle had taken him to a little restaurant, and between courses, had shown him some basic magic, explaining that the French Ministry had severely lowered the age limit on casting, due to the rise of some British Dark Lord with a silly name. And apparently the capital letters were important.

But tomorrow she was taking him to London, through the fireplaces of all things, and was going to show him just what he had missed out on. Stopping, of course, back at the church, to explain things to Father Michael.

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The priest had been remarkably understanding in the end, saying that even if the gifts were magic, they were still a gift from God, even if it was through the intermediary of DNA. And then Francis, who had been told he had to retain Potter as at least part of his family name, had seen his vault.

He had never seen such wealth before, and to find it sitting in a vault, doing nothing but gain interest, was a shock for him. Gabrielle led him out of the bank, still in a slight daze, and took his hand, walking him back down the alley. After a short talk with the goblins, the bank had agreed to release a short statement to the press on his behalf, letting the magical world know, in very little detail, what had happened to him since his birth. Suffice to say, even the goblins were shocked.

A loud bang startled the two of them, and a pale, noseless man strode down the alley, people screaming and cowering as he passed them. Gabrielle ducked behind Francis, frantically begging him to run back the bank. But he did not. He may not have been a Salvationist, and he may have been told murder is wrong, but the green death spewing from the noseless man's wand was a worse evil.

Quick as a flash, Francis darted forward, and put his hands on the noseless man, one on his head, and one on his heart. This wasn't any different to when Hedwig had been blown off-course by a wind, crashing into the side of the church. He focused on where the man's nose should be, and started to pray. The noseless man screamed, bucking and clawing underneath Francis, but he didn't let go, din't pause, until he felt the man underneath quieten and calm down, at which point he removed his hands.

The man was now rather handsome, and crying. He looked down at his wand, and snapped it, curling up, and sobbing into Francis' shoulder.

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It was a small ceremony, and the last Father Michael would ever do. He was supposed to retire yesterday, but stayed for a final blessing. He smiled to himself as he finished the rites, blessing the couple in front of him. He was glad that Francis had found his birthright, and gladder still that Francis had found Gabrielle. He could feel it inside himself, he knew he wouldn't last much longer, a year or two at most, but to have raised such a magnificent man?

Michael had found his calling.