It was a silent night on the 31st of October, 1981 in Godric's Hollow. One of the few places where mundane and magical society lived in peaceful harmony, unbeknownst to the normal people who lived there. Usually, the street would be alive, rife with the delightful glee of children, happily going trick-or-treating, filling their plastic coffers with bountiful sweets. Such was the jubilation that Halloween brought, with playful costumes designed to either scare or enthral the onlookers. However, this was not such a night. An oppressive stench of fear filled the air, weighing down the atmosphere of the street. There wasn't a hint of a breeze, nor a single chirp from a passing cricket. A tense silence that would break at the slightest whisper. And break it did, not with a whisper, but with a bang. A flash of eerie green light illuminated the entire street, bathing the quaint houses in an emerald splendour. As fast as it arrived, it flickered away, a fleeting sign of the tragedy that had occurred.
There was a house in Godric's Hollow, an odd two-story house, that, apart from the overgrown weeds that adorned its garden and vines crawling up its white walls, looked no different from the other houses that lay alongside it. Whatever beautiful flowers that had once occupied the lawn were now wilting, neglect bringing them to their slow, eventual demise. However, this house was far from abandoned. The windows on the first floor, though their cyan blue curtains were drawn, were brightly lit. The front door, open wide, let out the sounds of a faint jazz melody. The only thing that set it apart was the giant gaping hole in the second floor and the surrounding roof caved in.
It was at the front door that a loud rumble filled the air. A man drove down the street, riding a vintage motorcycle, halting to a stop in front of the residence. Clad in a black leather jacket, plain white casual t-shirt and black jeans, with a cleanly shaven face, he wildly looked around, locks of ebony hair descending down to his shoulders swinging along. This was Sirius Black, last son of the ancient Black family and member of the Order of the Phoenix. Taking note of the state of the house, he cursed, and rushed in.
The inside of the residence was a mess. Along every surface were dark grooves, carved by vicious force, reeking of dark energy. Furniture was strewn around the room, shards of a wooden table littering the floor, blasted apart. Sitting in the corner of the room was the body of a man. A bloody stump was what remained of his left arm, lacerations cut deep into his chest. Sirius let out a choked sob, running to his side.
"James, James." Cradling James' head in his lap, Sirius let his hand pass over his friend's hazy eyes, closing them, before squeezing his shut as well, as a few tears leaked out. James Potter was dead, slaughtered in his own home in cold blood. Sirius let himself mourn for what had been a lifetime friend, his salvation. They could still be alive. There was still work to be done. They could still be saved. Sirius shot up, running to what had been the little baby Potter's bedroom.
It was there that he found nothing but a crying babe, in his crib. His mother lay beside, unscathed. Sirius dove down and felt for a pulse, hoping to feel something, anything, but it was all for naught. Lily Evans-Potter lay dead in his arms. A victim of the killing curse, something that left the body untouched but severed the connection of the soul. And Sirius wept, unable to keep it in anymore. The light from his world was gone. Gone, just like that. Never again see James smile, his unkempt hair shadowing his eyes just slightly. Never again would he hear Lily's infectious laughter. A mournful howl left Sirius' mouth, shredding his throat raw, fighting and clawing its way out. It was the tragedy of war, the loss of what had been his closest friends.
And then Sirius heard it again. The cry of the babe. Mewling, snivelling, the babe was alive. Sirius clutched onto the side of the crib, his grip as tight as it could be, and yet it felt as though the crib could just slip through his fingers. Reaching desperately, Sirius picked him up gently. Harry James Potter was alive. Inquisitive wide eyes stared back at him, the innocence in them unmarred from the horrors of war. His godson was alive. And Sirius swore to him, swore to his best friends, that he would never fail them again. He would avenge them, he would take care of their son, he would raise him to be the best damn boy that he could be.
A hulking beast of a man stepped through the doorway of the nursery. He must have been eight feet tall, with thick eyebrows, a unkempt, full beard and straggly hair that framed his face. His hazel eyes, red with grief, and a nose that had been broken by one too many a barfight.
"Hagrid." Sirius had neither the will nor the energy to say more. Hagrid nodded at him, slowly stepping past the debris that Sirius had ignored.
"Is there any nearby threat?" A rough rumble in the form of a Scottish accent escaped past Rubeus Hagrid's chapped lips.
Sirius shook his head in negative. Enemies… A wicked whisper started forming in his head, echoing through to the furthest reaches of his mind. Who was it who revealed the Potter family to the enemy? Who was it who had disappeared so conveniently when he had popped out for a pint to calm his nerves? Who was it who had said to trust him, to say that Sirius wasn't the only friend of the Potters who could be trusted? Who betrayed his own friends after they took him in, shared their years of school together, fought side by side in this accursed war? Who was to blame for the wreckage he saw before him? Peter Pettigrew. And Sirius saw red anger and murderous rage, and his promise was to be broken, moments after he had made it.
Hagrid was by no means a gentle man, which was why he cradled little Harry Potter with the utmost precision that his large hands could find. Strict orders he had, from the Headmaster himself. Deliver the babe to Dumbledore, and never let him out of his own sight. Protect him with his own life. Use Sirius' bike to bring him Harry with the utmost haste. The steady rumble of the bike vibrated against Hagrid's inner thigh, but one thing was different about this bike. It was capable of flight. Indeed, Hagrid flew through the sky, looking as ridiculous as he felt. Hagrid had never been one for flying, and yet here he was doing so. A half-giant in the sky, who would've thought? Hagrid rolled his eyes at the very thought of it, scoffing. It was then that the wide eyes of Harry Potter opened.
Emerald-green eyes peered back at him, curious who this unkempt man who kept too much hair on his face. Hagrid was at a loss for words. Usually, he avoided such interactions, sure that he would somehow squash the baby. And yet here one was, in his arms.
"You know… You, er… You have your mum's eyes." Hagrid said, and then mentally smacked himself. He was talking to a baby.
Evidently, though, his attempt at least had some merit, for the babe in his arms started giggling. Hagrid took in the babe's face, studying it. Chubby cheeks that lacked the usual rosy splendour of a baby gave way to parted lips in the mould of a smile, and a cute button nose sitting slightly above that. However, the most defining feature of the baby was the scar carved into his forehead, freshly made. It was in the shape of a lightning bolt. The baby looked wildly around, his innocent eyes taking in the beautiful sight of the night sky.
"Beautiful, in'nit?" Hagrid chuckled, following along. As he perused the ink-black sky and the stars that dotted them, he started wondering about what this meant for the future. James and Lily Potter, dead. Their son, an orphan. One of the strongest fighters for the light had been snuffed out from this world. So engrossed in his thoughts was Hagrid that he failed to notice Harry Potter wiggling his tiny body out from Hagrid's less than secure grip, and then Harry started falling.
"Whoa there! Don't go bloody escaping me!" Hagrid grabbed the squealing baby with two hands, conveniently forgetting that he was driving the vehicle. Panicking, Hagrid grabbed onto the handlebars, and righted the bike as quickly as possible.
"Well then, best not tell your godfather about this then, eh?" He grinned down at the wee child, who continued to giggle, oblivious of the near-death experience that he had. Apparently, the ankle-biter was quite the troublemaker, and a brave one at that. As it should be, Hagrid thought, just like his father before him. And Hagrid continued the drive, his minds filled with meaningless worries interrupted by the warbling of the babe in his arms. As Hagrid came up near the safehouse for the Order of the Phoenix, though, he only had one thought on his mind.
How was he supposed to land this bloody thing?
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore stood in the middle of a small street called Privet Drive. He rifled through his pockets that were far too big for his robe. In his arm went- as deep as his elbow. Finally, he found it. His deluminator. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it twelve times. Each time he did, the street lamps closest to him flickered off. Satisfied, he slipped his gadget back into his pockets. Next to him, a black cat slowly padded up to him, arching its back to stretch its body out. Stroking his long, white beard, he chuckled.
"We might be in the middle of a muggle street, Minerva, but there isn't quite a need for that kind of disguise." He nodded his head sagely, a wise action reflected by the dignified purple robes he wore.
The cat next to him morphed into a tall woman, built like a scarecrow, her lips tapering downwards in a perpetual frown. She, too, was clad in a robe, this time emerald. "I came as soon as I heard. Albus, are the rumours true? Are the Potters dead?"
Albus sighed, his eyes misting over. To Minerva McGonagall, it was if the war had caused the Headmaster to age faster than he should have. He had never looked frailer than he did now, staring desolately at the ground. The kindest man she had ever known, forced to bear the burden of two wars, back-to-back.
"Indeed, Minerva. Too many, far too many, have been lost in this war. So many of the brightest minds and fullest hearts of our generation." His elderly voice spoke in a soft, sombre tone.
Whatever Minerva was about to say was interrupted by the throttle of a motorcycle, descending from above. Riding it was the half-giant Hagrid, tearing through the sky in an obvious show of inexperience of riding the vehicle. It reared up, as if almost taking a deep breath preparing for the crash that was ahead, and he finally slammed it down on the ground, grinding it to a halt before both the stunned Albus and Minerva. Hagrid dismounted the vehicle, which ground underneath his weight pressing down on it before popping back up, the suspension working overtime. Somberly, Hagrid passed the bundle in his arms to Albus. Albus mournfully accepted it into his arms, unfurling the blanket and exposing the face of a wide-eyed baby with a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead. This baby was the sign of the turn of the war. It was something Albus had been awaiting with eagerness, and yet, now that he received it, he could feel nothing but regret.
"Is that where…?" Whispered Minerva.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
"How could he have survived? After all he's done, the people he's killed, and he couldn't kill a little boy? It's astounding, of all the things to stop him… How on earth did this child survive?"
"We can only guess, Minerva. We may never know. The war is far from over, but for now, Voldemort has been struck down." Announced Albus solemnly. What would have once been considered a triumph was now something he wished did not have to pass.
"And what of the babe, Albus? What becomes of him? He is the saviour of the magical world, and you send him to live with muggles?" Beside him, Minerva questioned.
"Normally, Dumbledore, I'm fine with muggles, but even these ones are…" Hagrid trailed off, unsure of what to label the last direct living relatives of the Potter child.
"Unfortunately, it's our only hope." Albus made his way up the small road path of Number 4 Privet Drive. So this was to be where little Harry Potter would live for the rest of his childhood. Knocking on the door, he cooed at the small child in his arms one last time. It wouldn't be a bad life, having to grow up away from the magical world.
The door slammed open violently, and a rather corpulent man, Vernon Dursley, if Albus was correct, stepped forward slightly, his face red with rage. When he saw the gathered ensemble in front of him, his round face contorted even further into what could only be described as a rather angry frown. "Fucking freaks, who in the hell invited you onto my property!" His voice boomed out into the street, Vernon having no consideration towards his neighbours.
Albus blinked once. While he was aware Lily's extended family weren't welcoming of the magical world, he had no idea how to respond to such a foul outburst.
"Get the fuck off our doorstep, and get out of our lives. Either that, or I call the blooming cops!" And with that, Vernon Dursley slammed the door shut with a loud bang. It looked as though Harry's fate did not belong to the Dursleys after all.
Around the neighbourhood lights started illuminating windows. There was no time to dawdle in front of the Dursleys' house, and so, the entourage of two professors, one half-giant, and a tiny baby made haste to vanish as quickly as possible.
Sirius Black had finally cornered the little traitorous rat. He had found Peter at a bar, happily drinking his bottle of gin, or whiskey, or whatever that filth preferred for his drink. Once, Sirius had known this, but now all he cared about was avenging his deceased friends. He slung him down into the road, drawing attention from the passing muggles around him.
"Please, Sirius, he found my hiding spot and forced it out of me! You have to believe me, please!" The subhuman filth begged for his life, grovelling on the ground before Sirius.
"Remus would have died for you." Sirius began softly, his anger bursting at the seams. "Lily would have died for you." Sirius flicked his wand, sending red bursts of lightning out of his wand. "James would have died. For. You!" Sirius' wand sent an arc of lightning right in front of Peter, carving a deep hole into the ground. Peter flinched back, afraid of the unhinged man in front of him.
"Sirius, they were my friends too-"
"Then you should have died for them! Like any friend would do!" Sirius barked at Peter.
"Sirius, please… There are muggles around, the statute of secrecy…" As Peter begged for his life, he grabbed the spare knife he always kept in his boot, and mentally prepared himself for what he had to do. "Let's do this somewhere else, talk this out."
Peter let out a gasp of pain, and started to transform. Sirius was no fool, however, and didn't hesitate, sending an overpowered bombarding charm straight into his chest. The charm struck true, and Sirius was blinded by the backlash of such an emotionally-driven charm momentarily. When he regained his vision, Peter was gone. All that remained of him was a singular finger. Around Sirius was blood and chunks of human, but whether it was from Peter, or the exploded muggles around him, Sirius didn't know. All he knew was that he had fulfilled his first promise to the Potters. Never again would he disappoint them. And Sirius began to laugh, laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, laugh over the sounds of the city, laugh over the sounds of the screams of terror. All Sirius could do was laugh.
The next room that Harry Potter was introduced to was the Headmaster's office. A long rectangular desk occupied the middle of the room, flanked by two curved staircases leading up to a second floor. On the left, a myriad of silver instruments occupied the wall, and on the right, there were bookshelves housing the Headmaster's most treasured texts, along with the portraits of previous Headmasters of Hogwarts. It was with one of these portraits that Albus found himself consulting with one Phineas Nigellus Black.
"Now Dumbledore, you really become too much. First you offer him up to his muggle relatives, and what they toss him to the side, like muggles are wont to do, you decide to raise him up yourself? Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous." Phineas scornfully scolded his successor.
"Be that as it may, Phineas, but Harry is safest here. With me. I can think of no other place for him. His parents, dead, his Godfather, about to be sentenced to Azkaban."
"My descendant? Sirius? Dumbledore, how could you even let the ministry take him into custody?"
"I have tried to free him, Phineas, but the evidence against him is damning. The ministry doesn't want to let this case go, and they want to just hurriedly sweep everything under the rug fast and easy. I will defend him at his trial, but I think we must prepare ourselves for the worst."
Phineas leered at him through the portrait, "This is all your doing, Dumbledore. Just remember that. If this is how my line ends, through your foolish notions of the greater good, never again shall I help any Headmaster of Hogwarts. I wash my hands off your absurd behaviour." And with that, Phineas went off to another portrait of the school, and Albus hadn't had the heart to call him back.
Albus sat heavily in his chair. Today had not been good. While the disappearance of Voldemort was something rejoiced at by the magical community, there had been too many losses that day. The Longbottoms, hospitalised in St Mungo's. The Potters, dead. Only their children remained. Perhaps he was too old to continue on like this. Too much had been lost in this war. As someone who spearheaded the resistance movement against two Dark Lords, he had been stretched too far. He had no doubt in his mind that this was not the end, however. Albus was sure that Voldemort would rise again, more powerful than ever. It wasn't a matter of if, it was a matter of when. More lives would have to be thrown into the fire. How much had he sacrificed for the greater good? How much had he sacrificed to provide for the future of everyone? It made Albus feel so tired.
Looking at the baby on his desk, however, Albus made his choice. He had failed the Potters once before. He would not fail them again. And so it was, that Albus Dumbledore would raise Harry Potter to succeed him, considered the greatest wizard of their age. He would raise him to the best of his ability. To be determined, hardworking and confident. Most important of all, to be kind. He had no doubt he would make mistakes along the way. After all, this was the first time Albus had ever attempted to raise a child. Yet, Albus feared no challenges he would face. That was what he excelled in.
Hi, this is my attempt at writing a story. It'll be a retelling of Harry Potter, from the very start. My goal is to create a story that makes sense even to those who don't read Harry Potter, which is idiotic but look where we are. Ultimately, I'm going to make this a Harry/Fleur fic, which I know will turn people off so I'm warning anyone now so they don't get invested and waste their time trying to decipher my shitty writing. Bless, and thanks for giving this story a chance!