Hello dear readers,

This is the beginning of what, hopefully, is going to be a tale of Harry Potter's life if he had an early outside influence not even Dumbledore had foreseen. This is my first Harry Potter fic, so definitely any criticism, mistake checks, anything to keep this story as good as I can make it are beyond accepted and appreciated. If you are previous readers, please note that my other stories are on an indefinite hiatus. This story has been revolving continuously through my head for at least 2 years, and finally, my inspiration has brought me back into the world of writing. I feel so rusty, yet considerably different from my previous attempts. I'm hoping to bring a more mature story to the table, more realistic.

As I stated before, please feel free to leave any feedback.

Just a warning, this story will have a slower beginning, so please don't write it off if after only 3 chapters crazy amazing flashy chaos isn't occurring yet.

Enjoy

~Ghostdoor


Part I


August 1, 1987

6 Sanitatum Dr

Little Whinging

Surrey

"Friendship is like a stubborn child who is playing hide and seek with your life. You have to find him at the darkest places of your heart in difficult times. And when you find the child; his smile will light up the darkness of your life"-Sandeep Sharma, Let the Games Begin


Mr. And Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were prefectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.[1]

Ms. Delacroix, of number six, Sanitatum Drive, did not, or rather could not make these claims. Her house, although the neighbors would snicker derisively at it even being called such, sat directly on the other side of Mrs. Dursley's. It was boxy, just like all the others, however that's where the similarities ended.

Number six, Sanitatum Drive was an especially run down and curiously still standing house. The grass and shrubs grew above the window sills, seemingly an entity of their own as they always moved just right, so that anyone with a tendency for snooping could ever peek in. The roof sloped dangerously, as if a sneeze could send it sliding to the ground, but with every storm or gust of wind, it remained. The windows were dirty, the curtains tattered, and the mailbox hung on one stubbornly resilient nail.

Petunia Dursley absolutely detested that house, seeing it every morning through her kitchen windows. She had called the city officials, petitioned the neighbors, she had even sent Vernon to try and talk some sense into their disgusting neighbor, but all of it had ultimately and bewilderingly failed. The house remained, her unseen neighbor remained, and her horrendous morning view remained.

Josephine (Jo as she preferred) Delacroix, however, didn't seem to know that Mrs. Dursley and her hatred of her home even existed. In fact, I'm not so sure she even knew she herself existed most of the time.


Inside the detested house, through the curtain of cobwebs and dust, past the broken pictures and the creaky rotting stairs, and through the once grand but now decrepit entrance way, snores could be heard permeating the large sitting room. In the center of the wrecked, cluttered and dusty room, a figure shifted under a thin film of dust that had fallen over it during the night. The snores sputtered to a stop as the figure rolled to the left and right, obviously waking up in an unpleasant fashion from an even more unpleasant night.

Jo groaned, fresh sunlight creeping through one of the small, less dirty windows right into her face. She rolled away only to have something sharp stab into her side. Another groan, she rolled the other way, reaching behind her. A very dusty and crusted fork, the culprit of her new discomfort, soared through the room and crash landed into a very nice, albeit dusty, display of crystal figurines.

Hair that could only be described as the color of ash, greasy and unkempt, fell from her top knot and into her eyes. She blearily rubbed at them, grumbling and groaning the entire way into a somewhat sitting position. Her blue eyes slid closed for a moment, forgetting she had been trying to wake up. She groped around again, finding a much larger and less sharp object. It sloshed as she brought it to her lips, a glowing and swirling orange liquid sliding from the very bottom into her dry mouth.

"Need s'more," she slurred, her voice thick, whether from sleep or still being intoxicated from the night before, even she couldn't say. Stumbling to her feet, she steadied herself momentarily against a chair, and then promptly fell down as the chair finally gave out due to its years of neglect.

"Ga'dammit, bloody chair," she rolled to her back, staring at the cobwebs absolutely covering her ceiling. Blue eyes, surrounded by dark tired rings, dulled considerably as her continued staring straight up at her mess of a house. Her head slowly turned, taking in her surroundings.

There was supposed to be a couch somewhere to her left, but it was buried beneath boxes, dirty clothes, and the ever present dust. In fact, she could have sworn a large pair of yellow eyes were staring back at her from the mountain of junk. Dusty and laden down side tables were to each side, the legs seemingly bowed from their time of bearing unnecessary weight. The 'floor' was somewhere as well, covered in at least a foot or more of clutter, dirt, and smashed glass. Lots of smashed glass.

To the right was supposed to be another couch and love seat. They, too, were unrecognizable. Both were piled high with dirty clothes, trash, dirt, and a small little boy with bright green eyes, a cookie stuffed in his mouth as he stared back in terror.

Jo's eyes snapped open, her head slowly turning back to look at the tiny child who was, somehow, in her house. Eating her food. In her house.

"H-hullo." The little boy, his hair sticking up in every direction, stuttered but didn't move an inch. He was terrified of being caught by the mysterious woman, more so if she told the Dursley's he had been eating.

"Who the hell are you?" Jo's voice was quiet, still carrying a touch of a slur from a long night of binge drinking. "And 'ow did you get in 'ere?" She had stumbled to her feet, holding a hand to her head as a short spell of vertigo over took her. The room spun for a minute, coming back slowly, blue eyes focusing on green.

The boy regarded her with extreme caution, setting the tin of cookies down on the floor where he had gotten them. However, the intimidating woman staggered past him, a hand slapped across her mouth as her eyes widened and an obvious retching noise bubbled up her throat. She slammed through a door, releasing a cloud of dust thick enough to obscure her from view.

The echo of her vomiting carried through the room. It continued for some long uncomfortable minutes as the boy anxiously fidgeted, deciding whether or not he should stick around for her return.

A faucet turned on suddenly, interrupted only slightly by the woman's forcible spitting. Then, all at once, silence descended upon the living room. Green eyes watched the door warily.

Jo settled herself against the cold counter of the kitchen, her eyes shut as she breathed deeply through her nose. Anything to stop the rolling and twisting of her stomach. She vaguely heard the creak of the couch as her new found 'guest' moved in the other room.

"Alright, you're alright. He's just a kid," she spit again, "a tiny creepy kid, that somehow crawled his way into this dump." She nodded once, the stiff muscles in her neck making themselves very well known at the movement. "I think you can handle a tiny child," she berated herself, standing and reaching for a relatively clean glass.

The sound of glass clinking echoed through the door and into the living room. Finally, she stumbled back through the door. One hand held a large bottle, full of a swirling orange liquid reminding the boy of fire. The other presented a small cup, directly into his face, with what looked like milk.

"Don't worry, milk's not spoiled," she sighed, grunting slightly as she fell back onto the neighboring love seat, sinking into the clutter on top. She held a hand to her head, eyes slanted to almost shut, staring at the boy as he inspected his glass of milk. Honestly, she couldn't find the willpower to ask all the question slowly leaking through the fog in her head, so she just stared. If she was lucky, he'd rat himself out like most children without much prompting.

The little boy seemed to debate with himself, glancing uncertainly at her again before gulping down the milk. His eyes closed briefly as if he was truly reveling in the drink in his hand. A foamy white mustache sat on his thin face as he looked around the room again, trying hard not to make direct eye contact with her.

"My name's Harry, I live across the yard, and I'm not sure how I got here." The boy, Harry, paused to look at her uncertainly again. She just took a swig of her drink, staring at him with a blank face.

Harry, perturbed slightly by her silence, instantly launched into a lengthier explanation. "My cousin, Dudley, was chasing me down the road. We were coming back from school, and he and his friends started pushing me down." The boy began fiddling with his cup, focusing on it rather than the woman's creepy stare. "So, I ran. I was thinking about sneaking through your yard and through the hole in the fence. That way I'd beat him home."

She took another long swig of her drink, staring down the bottle at Harry. "Still doesn't explain how you ended up here, on my couch, eating my favorite cookies."

A bright pink lit up Harry's cheeks as he looked at the very cookies she was talking about. "I don't know," she scoffed at that, about ready to toss the kid across the fence herself. She was not in a state to provide this situation the patience it required.

The boy flinched back, but his eyes seemed to glow with determination as he continued. "I was running, like I said, thinking about just making it to your house. Then poof, I was here. Sitting on your couch." His hands gestured frantically with his words, those green eyes wide and sincere, pleading for her to believe him. "It was like magic."

Jo stopped drinking, the bottle stilled at her lips as she closed her eyes. 'Isn't it always magic?' Slowly, she set the bottle down, and leaned forward, a great sigh escaping her as she caught the boy's eyes with her own.

"Magic, huh?" Harry nodded vigorously. "That's a good word for it." Sighing again, Jo reached across and plucked the cookies from her floor. Harry tensed as she neared him. He could hear her cursing quietly, muttering something under her breath, the word magic reaching his ears.

Harry instantly realized his mistake, closing his eyes in fear as she continued muttering and sighing. You see, Harry had said the forbidden word. The 'M-word' which was not allowed, not even on accident. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had washed his mouth out with soap and taken the switch to him enough times he should know better. He wasn't sure what punishment this woman would deal out, but he was certain the word had upset her just the same.

Jo rolled the tin back and forth between her hands. It was blue with a small dog covered in pure white fur painted on the front. She really wasn't right for this today. Probably not ever. Her head felt like someone had planted an anvil in it, and she was pretty sure more vomit was going to be making its appearance in the very near future.

"Alright Harry, here's the deal," Jo tossed the cookie tin back to the small boy, uncaring of his flinching backwards, attempting to sink into the couch. "You don't tell anyone you were here, got it?" The kid looked up at her, confused. "Take the cookies, I don't like 'em much. Might as well let you keep 'em."

Slowly, Harry nodded, quite uncertain of these turn of events. "Yes ma'am-"

" No, do not call me ma'am." The kid jumped at her sharp tone, her face was probably screwed up ugly as well. She let out another little sigh, trying to release her face back into a neutral expression. Harry nodded again, unconsciously flattening his hair, a nervous tick his Aunt was trying to break him of.

"What should I call you then?," Harry asked quietly, peering up at her from beneath his hair.

She didn't respond right away. She didn't particularly want him to call her anything. Instead, she said "Time to go back to your own house, I'm sure your family's wondering where you've gotten off to." Harry didn't correct her, knowing full well the Dursley's would be more then pleased if he never came back. Looking down, he rolled the can exactly as Jo had, trying not sulk too much at the thought of going home.

She really shouldn't have, but she couldn't stop her face from softening at the dejected and miserable look about him. "You can call me Jo," she mumbled quietly, slightly hoping he wouldn't hear her.

However, she should have known right then by the sudden excited look that had entered his eye and the timid smile that had pulled up his cheeks, that another stray (of the human variety) would be stopping around in search of attention and friendship.

If there was one thing Josephine Delacroix had always had a weakness for, it was strays.

That night, Harry had been given the switch again. Whether for coming home late or for coming home at all, he wasn't sure, but as he laid on his cot under the stairs, he couldn't help but smile at the prospect that he might have made a real life friend. A kind of scary and grumpy friend, but a friend none the less.


[1] Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, JK Rowling