INTERVAL 1:

MEETING

It was a desolate little place, a fairly bleak hill with a single tree, where some enterprising adult had put a swing. And on that swing, a girl sat, swinging the swing back and forth. The girl appeared to be about seven years old, with long black hair, and wearing a dark red dress, the colour of blood. Not a very unusual sight, one would think.

But appearances, as the old cliché went, can often be deceiving.

Walking nervously up the hill was a boy a little younger than the girl. Like her, he had black hair, messy and untameable. He seemed thin, thinner than he should have perhaps. Scrawny and short, with glasses, and a distinctive scar, shaped like a lightning bolt, marring his forehead. His eyes were verdant green, and glittered with nervousness.

He didn't quite understand what was going on. For some reason, his uncle took the whole family to the US, and couldn't get anyone to look after him. So while his uncle spoke with some higher-ups in this big company they were in, he was told to go elsewhere and not cause trouble. It was that nice lady, the older one, who had told him to go here.

The girl stopped swinging on the swing as he approached. And then, she suddenly turned her head to look at him, over her shoulder. Her skin was pale, even grey, and she was still, unnaturally so. Glowing orange eyes regarded him from a rather impassive, if pretty, face.

For a moment, they watched each other, before Harry broke the silence. "H-h-hello," he stammered.

Once more, silence reigned for perhaps too long. Then, he heard her speak, her voice hissing out of the air, echoing. Who are you?

"I-I-I'm Harry Potter," he stammered. Why was this girl so frightening? Why did she frighten him more than the Dursleys? Was it that she seemed to speak without moving her lips? Her unsettling appearance? Her penetrating gaze, like she knew everything about him?

She regarded him for a moment more, before she got off the swing, and approached him, skipping lightly. It was a strangely normal bit of locomotion for the girl, and yet, it still unnerved Harry. She stopped in front of him, and peered at him. Alma Wade, she said. Her lips didn't so much as move, and yet, her voice slid into his mind. Her voice was quiet and eerie, with a faint echo to it.

"H-h-h-hello, Alma. The nice lady said I could come here to play. Her name was Genevieve?"

Alma stared at him, impassively. Her scrutiny with those glowing orange eyes after he said that proved uncomfortable. She didn't even blink. It felt like she was a scientist, examining every detail of a rather unpromising biological specimen. Like every second of his life was on display to the girl in the red dress.

Eventually, she reached out a pale arm. Do you want to play? she asked.

Timidly, Harry nodded. But in doing so, he got his first friend.

Genevieve Aristide would do many things for her position at Armacham. But dealing with someone like Vernon Dursley was proving to be extraordinarily trying. The man was like a belligerent, blustering walrus, with no grace, no charm, and no subtlety. He was shrewd, true, or else he wouldn't have risen as far as he did in his pissy little company back in Britain. But he had little else going for him.

And he had a small mind to boot. Which, ironically, would make it easier for her to get what she wanted.

"Mr Dursley," she said, after they had finished discussing other matters. "I am curious as to how you acted towards your nephew."

"Him? Good for nothing…brat," he said. She noted that he seemed to stop himself from using another term. Probably freak, if her reading of the man was any good. "His parents were lazy bludgers, layabouts on the dole. I have to force him to do his chores."

Genevieve bit back a snort. She had met the child of this man, Dudley, and he was spoiled rotten. Not so much a walrus as a baby whale…with the wife being more like a horse. At the very least, Dudley probably did little in the way of chores, while the nephew probably shouldered a lot more. Given the way the nephew acted towards his uncle, she reckoned that there was probably more than mere favouritism. Neglect, if not psychological and physical abuse…

…Which meant that she had a lot more to work with, it seemed.

"I'm not a fool, Mr Dursley," Genevieve said. "I am also considerably well-informed. Your nephew is one Harry Potter, known to wizards and witches the world over as the Boy Who Lived."

She had her back to him, and smirked as she heard him choke on a cup of coffee he had been sipping from when she made that announcement. She turned back, and smiled at him, even as he tried to mop at the coffee now staining his suit. She could sense the coming question on his lips, psychic powers unnecessary, so she said, smoothly, "To answer your coming question, Mr Dursley, I have as much magic as you do, which is to say none whatsoever. I am no witch. I am what is called a Squib. A person without magic born to those with it. My status brought shame upon my family, and I was cast out. Many Squibs are forced to claw their way up through normal society with little to no knowledge of how your world works. Many, understandably, are filled with resentment towards those who look down on us for being as normal as you are."

Vernon nodded hastily in agreement that was as sincere as it was obsequious. Fool. She took him in with her talk of being as normal as he was. Not that she actually told a lie. She was a Squib, abandoned in disgrace from her family. While American Squibs tended to be better off than in Britain, it was still a shameful status in magical society. Genevieve was very much a self-made woman.

And she did feel much resentment towards her family and her kind. For all that Magical America trumpeted that it was more progressive than its European counterparts, in truth, in many ways, it was more backward(1).

But she was not a normal person, nor did she intend to be. She sneered equally at Muggle and Magical alike. Both were so petty, so small-minded, so stupidly alike despite the difference magic made. What was Voldemort but the magical equivalent of a Neo-Nazi terrorist? And for a Pureblood to marry a Muggleborn often provoked reactions similar to how mixed-race marriage in America would have been treated not so long ago.

She, however, had ambition. Had she gone to Hogwarts (which was virtually impossible, given that she was both a Squib and an American), she would have gone instantly to Slytherin. Then again, her ambition was truly ignited by her family casting her out, something she had now gotten just and due retribution for. And after a long period of working her way up to the top, she was now in a position where she could get what she truly wanted.

To that end, she had done research, and had invited the Grunnings drill manufacturer to send their manager as a representative. She had even suggested the man make a family holiday of it, no expenses spared. The greedy pig snapped up the chance ridiculously quick. And even better, he had brought his nephew along for the ride.

Oh, Armacham did certainly need drills, and Grunnings' drills were top quality, of good enough value to justify importing them. But it was Harry Potter who was the prize. And Genevieve Aristide had enough money and clout to make it happen.

Not that she was going to tell Vernon Dursley that. "Actually, as it happens, it's something of a happy accident that you brought your nephew. Armacham has a number of R&D wings, and one of them, I intended to devote to researching the biological origins of magic. Though I hate using such a term as magic, so unscientific."

Once more, Dursley nodded in imbecilic and obsequious agreement. The man was a fool, easily led around if you told him the right things. Much like the rest of humanity, Magical or Muggle.

"I thought that, while you are here, I can do some research on Harry. He will be treated well, and you will be compensated for your trouble," Genevieve said.

Predictably, at the word 'compensation', Dursley's eyes began glittering with greed. "When do you want to start?"

"Once you return to your hotel, you may leave him here, at least until it is time to go back to England," she said smoothly.

"A pity I couldn't sell the little freak to you," he muttered, a crudely calculating look in his eyes.

I'd buy him, if I could guarantee that you could keep your mouth shut, or that you can't succumb to Legilimency, which I know you can't on both accounts, Genevieve thought. Besides, it'd be a waste of money.

Out loud, she said, "But that is highly illegal, Mr Dursley. Besides, he is your nephew, after all."

He grunted. Like a pig, she thought with contempt she worked hard to conceal…

Harry had rarely played with anyone beforehand, thanks to his cousin Dudley, who scared off many potential friends. It was either through physical intimidation, or else dripping poison into the ears of kids, who would see him as a freak. It didn't help that his aunt and uncle also poisoned the minds of many they knew in Little Whinging, who in turn warned their children and friends with children to avoid the freak. Not that Harry realised this consciously per se, but he did comprehend it on some level.

So to play with Alma Wade was a relatively novel experience. They had taken turns in pushing each other on the swing. Such a simple little pastime, and yet…they enjoyed it nonetheless.

Harry found it hard to tell whether Alma was enjoying herself at first, until she began humming a strange, ethereal tune. It was a bit disturbing, but he was getting the feeling that the girl was enjoying herself for the first time in a very long time. He certainly was. He did get a disturbing vibe from the girl, like she was a human-shaped vessel of darkness, of fear and loathing and anger, but conversely, she also gave off something vaguely welcoming to him now. It was certainly much better than anything he had felt from anyone else, save for a few well-intentioned teachers. And they had left not long after they tried to do something about it.

There were a number of reasons for this state of affairs at the school, of course. One of them was the old school tie. The principal of Little Whinging Primary was a good friend of Vernon Dursley back from Smeltings, Vernon's old boarding school, who replaced any teachers who wouldn't follow the party line. The principal, quite frankly, was only interested in administering the school for the prestige it brought him. He didn't care about the children under his care, and indeed, believed that a little bullying and beating was good for the old moral fibre. Which is ironic, considering that he was a man who had a dearth of moral fibre. And he also thought it was good for a rather Darwinian form of survival. He had, after all, been through one of the more vicious public schools in the world.

And if one Harry Potter got the wrong end of the stick? The boy's parents were apparently good-for-nothing drunkards who deserved their car crash fate. A pity the boy didn't join them in death. And if the principal had known and believed what had really happened? He still wouldn't have given a shit. For a man lacking morals, he believed in the Bible, and would have pointed to the verse that said 'suffer not a witch to live'(2).

Another reason, and all the more tragic because it was originally intended for Harry's protection, were some charms designed to obscure him. Harry was made relatively below notice by spells cast by a certain Albus Dumbledore. Done with the best of intentions, but with unforeseen consequences. It meant that Harry's situation was usually ignored.

Another reason working against Harry was his personality. He was somewhat quiet and withdrawn, and, despite both his scar and the vicious rumours his relatives spread about him, often fell beneath notice. He liked it this way. It was usually when people noticed him that things tended to go wrong.

And yet, it didn't feel that way with Alma Wade. It felt like, despite their brief time together, they had already forged a bond.

So when his uncle waddled up the hill, the woman Genevieve not far behind, his heart sank, knowing that his time with Alma was about to come to an abrupt end.

Or so he thought.

"Boy," growled Vernon Dursley. "You will be staying here at Armacham for a few days. We will come back for you before we go back to England." He said this in a tone that brooked no argument whatsoever, not to mention wishing he could leave him here. "You will be staying with Miss Aristide."

Harry didn't protest. That had been all but beaten out of him. And to tell the truth, he wished they would leave him here, with Alma. He would rather be here, where someone had actually wanted to play with him.

He didn't miss the look Alma gave his uncle as he waddled off. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, just enough to be noticeable. Given how impassive she had been before, she may have well growled.

He felt a shiver down his spine. Something told him he would never see his uncle again. And while he didn't know it yet, he was right…

INTERVAL 1 ANNOTATIONS:

Greetings, and welcome to the new version of Lux in Tenebris Lucet. Now, it's not all new: sharp-eyed followers of the original will notice that much of Harry and Alma's original meeting was copied and pasted from the original story (I do that a lot in my writing when I do multiple drafts, though this is the first time I've done so for a fanfic). I did change more than a few things from that original meeting, as you'll have noticed. I was inspired to have Alma be a bit more impassive by a cinematic I watched from F.3.A.R with the kid versions of the Point Man and Fettel, along with what I've played of F.E.A.R 2.

The opening tone of the story is somewhat darker too, particularly the look into Harry's childhood. That whole thing about the headmaster being an old chum of Vernon's was something I'm pretty sure I read in another fanfic, so it's fanon, not canon, but it is plausible.

I'm actually considering whether to bash Dumbledore or not in this version of Lux in Tenebris Lucet. Considering a lot of my Harry Potter fanfics go out of their way to reconstruct Dumbledore rather than bash him, it might be interesting to go the other way as an experiment.

1. One thing that annoys me about many a Harry Potter fanfic is that magical society in other countries, including the US, is automatically better than in the UK. This is me flipping that concept the bird.

2. I thought the relevant quote was in Leviticus, but it's actually Exodus 22:18. A quote about banning witchcraft and the like is in Deuteronomy. I consider myself a misotheist, but even so, the principal is obviously an extreme case. That being said, to paraphrase a line from Red Dwarf, far too often people use religion as an excuse to be really crappy to each other.