A/N: The credit of the Harry Potter plot and characters belongs solely to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing of it but my own words.
I have been wanting to write a Harry Potter AU for ages, particularly one featuring the Marauders' era, so we shall see how this fares, yeah?
Also, I know that this is a gross misinterpretation of Chaos Theory that the media tends to exploit, but I firmly believe in the ability of a minuscule something to change everything, so I'll accept my mediocrity and move on.
"It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world." — Chaos Theory
It's quite a well-known story, of a villain who tried to prevent a prophecy and instead fulfilled it. It's rather fascinating, however, that the beginnings of said prophecy relied on a choice, one between such superficial things as pure-bloods and half-bloods. But the prophecy was about equals, and so the half-blood chose the half-blood, and, well, you know the rest.
Yet suppose a different choice had been made, not one such as this, but a much less consequential (or so it would seem) decision, made approximately fourteen years before the first ever became an ultimatum. Suppose that on 21 September, 1967, a crotchety old bloke named Alistair Barker chose to follow his lifelong dream and finally open his own bakery shoppe, just near Cambridge, where he grew up. He'd been advised all his life to take the safe option, and so he'd wasted his existence shuffling papers at a drill-making company by the name of Grunnings. But that morning, Alistair had looked himself in the mirror and saw what he truly was, an overweight, middle-aged man with no real personality. Disgusted, he'd headed right for his bank and withdrawn his life savings. He'd handed in his letter of resignation and felt relief and empowerment flood his brain. His wife called him a madman, his children irresponsible, but oh, was it worth it. . . .
Elsewhere, Thomas Evans had almost just clocked out on his lunch break when he'd been called into his boss' office. He'd been on the way home to surprise his wife and kids, Petunia and Lily, both of whom had been out of school sick all week with a rather nasty bug, and was rather surprised when Mr. Atkinson had called his name.
"Sir?" he said, stepping into the office, slightly nervous and more than a little confused.
Atkinson let out a good, long sigh from behind his desk. "Well, it seems dear old Barker has finally gone barmy. He quit this morning."
"Truly?" gasped Thomas, very nearly wringing his hat.
Atkinson pulled out a handkerchief and began carefully cleaning his eyeglasses. "Yes," he said, "And I've recommended you as a prime candidate to replace him. Should you accept, you will work less hours for higher pay."
"Forgive me, sir," stammered Thomas, "but didn't Barker work in West Country?"
"Yes, it would mean quite a move. To Devonshire, if I am to be specific." Atkinson nodded. "Would that be a problem?"
"No, sir," breathed Thomas, grinning from ear to ear. Just wait until Rose heard this! They could finally afford to move out of that minuscule house and into a real home, with a good school for the girls! "Thank you for this opportunity, sir! I won't let you down!"
"See that you don't," warned Atkinson. "You start in two months. I'm giving you the rest of the day off to inform your family and begin preparations."
"Of course, sir! Thank you, sir!" With that, and an awkward, entirely inappropriate salute, Thomas rushed from the room in such a frenzy that he nearly bowled over Tacey from the desk opposite him.
Four and a half weeks later, the Evans were settling nicely into a charming four bedroom house in an equally charismatic village known as Chudley, which had a fantastic school system and several children Petunia's and Lily's age, even if some of the people were a bit odd. There was a beautiful park just two streets over where the girls spent nearly all their time, and neighbors welcomed them from the instant they moved in.
In one particularly memorable instance, a Mrs. Euphemia Potter knocked on their door and invited the lot of them over for tea, as she lived just across the way, in a tasteful but quite large house. Petunia, as per usual, was dressed impeccably for a nine year old, with a pristine dress and a brilliant blue bow in her fair hair. Lily, on the other hand, seven and ever the handful, with her wild curls, had been at the park nearly all morning, and as such had grass stains on her stockings and dirt under her fingernails. Rose smiled sheepishly, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and accepted.
Now, the Potters were, by all accounts, kind and respectable people, if not, for lack of a better term, eccentric, and, as several of the women gossiped to each other on slow Sunday afternoons, very, very well off. Mr. Fleamont Potter had been some type of businessman, although he never did, out of politeness, it was assumed, talk about his career in the presence of company. Curiously, despite having retired out of wealth and sheer age, they had a son, James, just Lily's age. Having given up on the idea of having a child prior to James, they considered him a miracle, and certainly raised him with the very best of the best, ensuring he'd want for nothing.
The Evans, however, being new, did not know these things, and so when they followed sweet Mrs. Potter to her lavish home and joined her for tea, Lily found herself sitting across from a boy she did not know, with unruly black hair and piercing hazel eyes. She was never one to be proper, like Petunia, or shy, like the girls from her old school, so she reached across the table, dirty fingernails and all, and said, "Hello. I'm Lily. And you are?"
The boy grinned, a smile that split his face and lit up his eyes in a way that was simply magnetic. "James," he replied, shaking her hand with a firm grip.
Lily looked him over and nodded, satisfied. "Well, James," she told him with the utmost confidence, "we're going to be good friends."