Changer of Paths: Another Place

By: Sister Shadow / Li

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Most stories begin with something like: 'Once upon a time there lived...'; or 'Let me introduce myself. My name is such and such and this is my story...'; and sometimes the prologue is packed with action that either gets you excited about what is to come or leaves you wanting to throw it out a window.

The tale you're about to read starts with none of those. Indeed, it has already begun.

In the beginning, there was a Calling from the Council of Worldly Fates for a Changer of Paths to help redirect the Chosen Path of a world they worried over. The Calling took place in a world much like ours, and the one who answered seemed an ordinary girl. But in fact she wasn't at all, having been trained by an experienced Meddler, a pioneer of that field; her own mother.

Having found their Changer, one who knew of the River of Red and Madness, a place you could easily lose yourself in, the Caller sent her to the world she would be redirecting. Now the new Wheel and Tapestry could be created. She was free to change as much as she liked, as long as no too many tangled webs resulted.

The Leader of the Council spoke to her in a unisex voice and she answered, "I will try my best." That is all they could ask for.

Oh, the world she was sent to? Where else but the world of Harry Potter?

Welcome to another place, very different than her home world of eternity.

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Chapter One: Normality

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I: Number Four, Privet Drive, the home of Petunia Dursley

Petunia Dursley, formerly Evans and glad to be rid of it, lived a wonderfully normal life. She was raised in a good family, with a mother who stayed at home and a father with an eight hour job. Even it her younger sister turned out disreputable, her life before was still absolutely normal.

As was her marriage. Even though her parents hadn't exactly approved of Vernon, she was in love and it was her choice. They respected her decision to get in engaged, and later married, even if they hadn't attended the wedding.

She was a dutiful wife to her husband and mother to their child, Dudley; a fine, respectable name for such a sweet little fellow. Like her mother, she stayed at home and did everything expected of her: cleaning, cooking, and working the flower beds, a hard but rewarding task.

Her like was completely normal. Or, at least, she liked to think so.

It all change when her sister had to go and get herself blown up. Her nephew, Harry Potter -a nasty, common name, that- was left in her care. More precisely, on the doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive. Not the most welcome surprise when you find the offspring of your hated sister instead of the usual morning milk.

Petunia, since she'd known there was a baby on the way, had been jealous. The jealousy and envy festered in her until she grew bitter and angry. She could have loved her beautiful, kind sister, if only she'd been normal.

Petunia blamed magic for her own faults and feelings. Being normal became an obsession, and she'd married a man who whole heartedly agreed. She couldn't even have a second child. Lily was born second; what if the child turned out like her... A fear worth avoiding, in her mind. Thank heavens Vernon loved Dudley so!

That boy, though. That Harry Potter. He was lucky they let him live under their roof, for all his freakishness. The letter reminded her of a promise she'd made to her mother, to 'Help all family in need,' and explained more about the wizarding world. Not that she'd read it thoroughly, mind, only the important parts, such as, "Harry Potter must remain in your home, and think of it as his own. If he is away for more than a week, we will come." Sent by some Dumpydoor fellow who she remembered her accursed sister mentioning repeatedly.

Blasted freakishness. They didn't want any in their house, she, Vernon and Dudley.

Now, six years later, nothing was as normal as it had been.

The boy still hadn't woken up, and it was half pasted seven! Who would cook breakfast if he kept lazing about? She'd grown used to putting out the ingredients and having it prepared by the time Vernon woke up.

Petunia pounded on the door to their stair's cupboard, where they so graciously let the boy sleep. "Up! Up! Get up!" she screeched, though to her ears it was more of a yell.

A sleepy, "Yes, Aunt Petunia." was her answer.

Satisfied, she unlocked the door and went back to the kitchen.

The morning passed as usual, though without the boy's usual sass. He did as he was told without complaining, not even burning the bacon as he normally did. Something, she decided, wasn't right.

"Did you hit your head, boy?" she asked, narrowing pale eyes suspiciously.

"No, Aunt Petunia." The boy had the nerve to yawn.

'He looks half asleep,' the thought drifted into her head. That must be it, she decided. He was just too tired to complain.

Believe it or not, she was right.

The sound of metal on metal meant the mail had arrived. Vernon, reading his paper, said gruffly, "Boy, get the mail."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon." They didn't even notice his weary, tired trudge, just glad to be rid of him from the room.

He stood, staring blindly, in the hallway a moment, then remembered what he was there for. "Mail. Right." No more late night reading, even if the hall light was unintentionally left on again, he decided. That was the reason for his tiredness.

Harry reached down and picked up the thick pile of mail, absently flipping through them, as he'd developed a habit of doing. Bill, bill, letter from Aunt Marge, bill, advertisement, sample-something-or-other, a thick, parchment letter for Aunt Petunia-

He stopped flipping, staring at the innocent, thick papered envelope in his hand.

It was addressed to Petunia Evans Dursley of #4 Privet Drive, written in a plain, easy-to-read script. But the lines had something else to them (an artistic touch perhaps) that he knew couldn't come from a pen.

Intrigued, he continued to stare, until his uncle shouted, "What's taking you, boy?"

Harry hurried back into the kitchen, absently putting two bills before the odd letter addressed for his aunt. He could think it over later, in the dark confines of his cupboard. Now he had to clean up breakfast.

The boy took too long to get the mail, and earned a swat from her husband's rolled up newspaper. He was done reading, anyway.

Petunia waited impatiently for the boy to lay the mail on the table and start collecting breakfast dishes so she could supervise. No use leaving him on his own; he might break a plate or three.

Vernon picked up the mail and muttered to himself what it was. She paid him no mind, not even when the rustling papers turned into stunned silence; all her attention was on what the boy was doing.

"Petunia, pet." Her husband's voice cracked. It hardly ever did, and drew her attention away from the boy brushing their crumbs into the dispenser.

She turned to face Vernon and paled at what he held in his trembling hand. "It's a letter from one of them." He trembled, remembering the one time they'd tried to leave the boy with Marge, who'd rid him of his freakishness better than they could. But the other freaks had come within minutes of them dumping him off, and he'd seen what they could do.

"Yes. Vernon, darling-" She stopped and glanced at their adorable son. "Later."

Her husband nodded, putting the letter in his pocket for safe keeping.

Harry stopped mid-wipe when he heard the fear in his uncle's voice. As far as he knew, Uncle Vernon wasn't afraid of anything, like his cousin Dudley often boasted. But Dudley was afraid of high places and not getting sweets, from his experience.

He only wondered who 'they' were; the ones that made Aunt Petunia scared too, if he judged her tone right. Maybe if he found out who 'they' were, he could be like them and his aunt and uncle would be scared of him, too.

Or something like that. Best not get his hopes up. It was troubling when they came crashing down.
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That night, before turning in, Petunia Dursley sat stiffly on the edge of the bed she shared with her peacefully snoring husband, clutching the Letter. She thought herself smart not to open it, but what if it turned out to be one of those smoking ones her dreadful sister had received one Christmas? It would shout and scream and no doubt wake the neighbors, who would then ask questions she couldn't answer.

It would be best to see what they wanted, wasn't it? She was the only one they contacted; perhaps they'd found someone else to take the boy?

With that thought in mind, she turned the envelope over and inspected the seal. It wasn't the Hogwarts seal, or the one that'd informed her of her sister's untimely demise. No, no where close to either of the two.

She studied it closer, mentally memorizing it so that if another letter came bearing this seal, she would know to burn it upon delivery. If it wasn't fireproof, at least. You never knew what the freaks could, or would, do.

A winding line that was clearly a miniature path went through the middle, surrounded by just as small trees and bushes. Where the path met the wax horizon shone the faint but noticeable outline of a five-pointed star.

Petunia sneered. What horrible taste, though she expected no less. She would use something more pleasant to look at, such as a rose or marigold. Not that she thought about anything of the sort. No, not at all.

Not wanting to ruin her nails by popping the seal (not that she knew how, mind you), she tore the parchment instead. Inside was only one peace of paper, neatly folded, unusually thick and cream colored, same kind as the envelope.

Pulling the letter cautiously from within, the hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end. Taking this as the warning it was, she dropped both papers and put as much distance between them as she could, which wasn't much unless she intended on waking Vernon.

The strange feeling receded, only leaving the dull terror Petunia always felt when anything remotely odd came within a few meters of her. (The boy didn't count, though he did leave her feeling uneasy.)

Chancing a peak over the edge of her bed, Petunia saw only what she expected to see: two pieces of paper lying on her undamaged carpet. She'd have to clean tomorrow, she decided, twice in each room the letter had been in. Unclean thing touching her lovely green floor (which was really a sickly yellow-green color that wouldn't leave a stain if someone pucked), making her do extra work.

Using only the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, Petunia picked up the letter by a corner, letting it unfold due to gravity. Staring at the paper in horror, she muffled a cry.

She couldn't read it! It was upside-down! Now she'd have to touch it, again. Cue shudder.

Flipping it and holding tightly with both hands, Petunia read and reread the only three lines written in that unfamiliar-but-neat handwriting that had addressed this to her. It wasn't Dumpledorfe or anyone else she had heard her sister going on and on about to her parents when she'd only listened for something to mock her sister with later on.

It was simple and to the point, though not very polite.

Three neat, handwritten lines that caused her whole world to come crashing down a second time, the first when Lily received her Letter, though it had been a different kind.

Mechanically, Petunia Dursley folded the paper, retrieved the envelope from her floor and neatly paced it and the letter on the table by her bed, turned out the light and curled up in her covers, seeking the comforting warmth of her husband.

Closing her eyes tightly, she willed sleep to come, and tomorrow to stay away. Because tomorrow she would discuss its contents with Vernon, and the boy. But before that, upon waking, she'd reply. She had to.

Lying innocently on a wooden table, the letter glowed faintly as the sender checked that it had been received and read. The glow faded last from the seal's path to a star, unbroken and cold.

The three lines, blunt and to the point read as follows:

Mrs. Petunia Evans Dursley,

I wish to know Harry Potter.

Sagax Iter

Those lines, unforgettable to one Petunia Dursley, marked a life changing event for Number 4 Privet Drive, but mostly for Harry Potter.

II: Serene Lovegood, Snarget Manor, Unchartable Dovegool Island, Bermuda Triangle

Snarget Manor, and most importantly, Dovegool Island, were covered in all manner of defenses, including wards, natural rock formations, and woods rivaling that of Hogwarts' Forbidden Forest in size and species habitat. No one came or went without everyone else knowing, and even though there were places to disappear, no harm could be done unless one was exceedingly foolish. The manor itself was impenetrable to attack, and could house the entire family and then some if something should happen, which it not-so-often did.

This place, their home, was more than theoretically safe and stood through many a crisis, from the time of its creation in uncertain times, to its relocation in the Bermuda Triangle and the Wizard Secrecy Act, two muggle and magical World Wars, and so on. Their family lived and loved here, bringing only those most trusted onto its sentient soil. No one, nothing, could break or damage a single thing, animate or inanimate.

So why, when they were safe from all the dangers of the world in a place that was as much a part of them as their personality, make her feel so empty and anxious? That was the question Serene had been asking herself for the last two years. Her answers, of course, were hardly denied from her thoughts.

Her late husband, the kind and generous man she still loved, had passed away two years ago, right in front of their daughter's eyes. A belated attack, the Ministry had said, on a small town by unnamed Death Eaters. But the killers were never caught, and a belated attack after four years of peace? That was the final cut in a series of lies; the Lovegood clan never trusted the Ministry again.

The Quibbler, the paper her husband helped found, now ran through his great-grandmother, who published whatever she wanted to publish with no problems from the Ministry of Magic. What did they care? It was all garbage, they said. Pathetic, brainwashed excuses for wizards, she thought. If you read between the lines, there was nothing untrue printed in their paper.

Her daughter read the paper, and gave pointers to her cousins, who wrote for it. Her daughter, the future Ravenclaw, just like she and her husband. Her daughter, quiet and thoughtful, just like her father. Her daughter, who she couldn't stand to be near because she was too much like her father, in both looks and personality.

This place housed her daughter, was a home to the girl, but not to her. Snarget Manor, where their wedding was held. Dovegool Island, the infamous home of the Lovegood family, the family she had married into.

Maybe it was because of that she felt uneasy. All Lovegood children were born here, always delivered by the aging creature Maket, a living remnant of Ancient Egypt that had somehow founded a home here was well are the Wizarding World's most eccentric family. She, born at St. Mungo's like most pureblood children in these modern times, had no real connection to this place, now that her beloved was dead and her daughter didn't know her face.

Avrul, her daughter. Her one and only child.

Was it normal to only see your offspring once every three months, and then only at a distance? Was it normal for a parent to have no part in their child's life, even when the child could be suffering from the same illness her grandfather had had? Was it normal to have vampires and werewolves, veela even, know your child better than you? Her definition of normality had become so twisted that she hardly knew right from wrong anymore.

Serene felt as if she would go insane if she stayed in this place any longer, this place that held so many memories that now only caused pain.

She needed to get away. Go somewhere were no one knew her name, do something that was so risky and no sane person would attempt. She just... needed to forget, for a time. Not permanently, just, for a little while, to get some relief.

But there was someone she had to see before she left, the only person besides her comatose mother she had to live for: Avrul.

III: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School, Scotland

Though summer holidays had started and the halls were absent of the children he loved to teach, Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, looking over the final drafts of teacher's schedules. With a few flourishes of the pen, he signed his name at the bottom, and it was ready to be copied and sent to the teachers. Flicking his want, he animated two quills to make the necessary copies and addressed envelopes.

Relaxing in his chair, the elderly man folded his hands in his lap, thoughts drifting randomly. He had accomplished much in his time on Earth, from discovering the uses of dragon's blood to defeating Grindewald, most importantly becoming the Headmaster of Hogwarts. He loved his job dearly, as well as the privileges and responsibilities that came with it.

But, as he was as human as anyone, he had recently been informed of another of his mistakes.

He thought, and regretted, often of his mistakes in these peaceful times. Peaceful only because of a prophecy and the sacrifice of two promising parents, as well as their child, in a sense. Children were precious and untarnished by the 'evils' of this world, ignorant of what could happen.

Normal children were a blessing to be cherished. But, he was afraid, one Harry Potter would never be normal.

The poor boy would be pulled in every direction upon entering the Wizarding World, prey to the prejudice ideals and political parties who would want not him, but his fame, at their back. He would do everything he could for the boy, of course. But would it be enough?

Sighing, Dumbledore pushed away his musings for the moment. He couldn't do much, yet, just hope that Harry grew up to be an outstanding, and stubborn, young man. His mind, and eyes, focused instead on the rather thick parchment lying under the copying quills.

At exactly eight that morning, a rather large raven flew in carrying a letter. That in itself was not odd, but rather a direct delivery to his office was. Most owls went straight to Minerva's office and were then sent up to his in bulk at the day's end. Ravens, while used by some pureblood families, weren't as reliable as owls, and that dissipated their use. Combined, the letter was an unusual occurrence indeed.

But the information inside...

He hadn't known, hadn't even thought it possible, but all the evidence was where the letter said it would be. Everything was placed as if it had all been planned, down to the last detail. And, from what the writer said, it had.

How did this person know, he wondered, something even he hadn't discovered yet? All the pieces, right in front of him, but he hadn't completed the puzzle quickly enough. Someone had already died because those things still existed.

The letter said not to blame himself, and he didn't, not consciously. Albus Dumbledore knew that he couldn't be everywhere and do everything like the majority of magical Britain expected him to, though he did his best. If he didn't, he would just have more things to regret.

He had many regrets, but did all he could to make up for past mistakes. Founding the Order was an example, even if its current member rate declined every year.

Dumbledore held his head in his hands, usually sparkling blue eyes filled with sadness. His elbows cushioned by papers he would later have to sort through, the man, only human, removed his glasses to rub between his eyes. Regretting changed nothing, and his was only an unfortunate habit of living a bit too long.

There was nothing he could do but wait for the reply to the reply he had sent to this mysterious entity, hoping it wasn't a trap. But if it was, why send information?

Keeping himself from indulging deeper into his thoughts, Dumbledore placed his hands neatly on his desk and stared at nothing in particular.

The quills stilled, having finished their task, and dropped lightly onto his paper-covered desk. With a flick of his wand, the letters folded themselves and found homes in pre-addressed envelopes. All they needed now was the Hogwarts seal in wax to be sent.

Using his Headmaster ring and a candle, Dumbledore sealed each letter with the school's insignia, and with another flick of the wand, the wax was cooled. Placing them in the Out box (which magically teleported them to Minerva, who currently acted as his secretary until he found a new one), Dumbledore glanced one last time at his paper work. The complete mixed in with the incomplete on his messy desk. It usually wasn't this bad, but since that letter...

Heaving a small sigh, he sat back, ready to manually sort through the disorderly piles. Even though a spell had been invented for such things, Dumbledore never did like to rely on magic for something he could do on his own. It took the joy out of one of this job's greatest benefits: paperwork.

Truly, he was a fruity man.

One parchment in particular, contents all but forgotten, fluttered to the floor as he searched for his ink bottle. In the same neat handwriting that would soon become a renounded symbol of mystery in Magical Europe was a signed name. An enigmatic, Latin name that meant the same as the scene that sealed the Letters. Printed neatly in signature was: Sagax Iter.

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-Chapter One Complete-

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Sister Shadow/Li