31 July 1980 — Potter Manor

"C'mon now, just one big push," one of the three midwives called out. In response, Lily Potter shot her a murderous glare.

It had been nine hour since her water had broken, but the little girl in her womb still wouldn't come out. Lily had heard a variation of the "just one big push and it's all over" phrase at least four times in the last hour. She was ready to push at least one of those midwives out of the third story window behind her.

Still, she pushed, and she pushed, and she pushed.

Meanwhile, her husband James and his best friends Sirius, Remus, and Peter were all waiting in the adjacent room, one of many sitting rooms in Potter Manor. This room was stuffed with balloons and stuffed animals and toys and banners—a fitting way to to celebrate the birth of the heiress to the Ancient and Noble House of Potter.

"So you're sure about the name Harriet?" Sirius asked for about the fifth time in the last three hours. "You don't want to go with, say, Siri or Sarah—you know, to honor the great man that is yours truly?"

James laughed and shook his head. "Harriet Dorea Potter. That's the name we chose, and that's the name we're sticking with."

"What if they screwed up and she turns out to be a he?" Remus asked.

"Still Harriet—or maybe just Harry, I guess." James shrugged. "Not like that's possible, right?"

Forty-five minutes later they heard yet another scream from Lily, but this time it was followed with the sound of a crying baby. Cheers erupted as the men waited with anticipation for their first glimpse of the baby heiress.

But while the child continued to cry, the doors remained closed.

Inside, the chief midwife was perplexed. When the baby emerged, it was clearly the girl they had all expected to see. But then she turned to grab a blanket before handing the baby over to her mother for the first time.

When she turned back, it wasn't a girl she saw. It was a boy.

"Um, Marlene, can you come and take a look at this for me?" she called to one of the other midwives.

"What is…oh my god. She was a she a second ago, right? I could have sworn."

"That's definitely a penis, girls," the third midwife said to the other two. "I should know."

"What's going on, Irene? Where's my baby girl?" Lily cried nervously.

The chief midwife wrapped the baby up in the blanket and took her over to Lady Potter.

"My lady," she said, nervously, "Marlene and I appear to have terrible eyesight."

"What do you mean?" Lily asked, her panic rising.

"Well, all I can say is, congratulations—it's a boy!" And with that, she placed the bundle in Lily Potter's arms.

"A boy?!" Lily cried loud enough for the Marauders to hear her clearly. "How?! The scans showed a girl all along!"

On the other side of the door, four men stood stunned, having heard the sudden and unexpected news.

Naturally, Sirius was the first to react. "Okay, I'm just gonna to throw it out there—Sirius Orion Potter."

Lady Magic stood and watched the chaos in the delivery room unfold. Clearly no one was really angry. In fact just a few minutes later the initial confusion was replaced by an unbridled joy. After all, the baby was healthy and happy, and that's really all that mattered.

Sadly, this particular baby would not always know health or happiness.

"But don't worry, dear," she whispered to the child, "all will be right in the end."

"What was that, Freya?" Irene asked.

"Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself."

"Well, quit ogling the baby and get back to work. We've got a lot of cleanup to do."

"Yes ma'am."

1 September 1986 — Offices of The Daily Prophet

"Take a seat, Ms Skeeter. What do you want?"

Barnabas Cuffe was in one of those foul moods that seemed to only sprout up among newspaper editors. It was 9 AM. He was finishing off one glass of firewhiskey and about to pour another. The more alcohol consumed when meeting with Rita Skeeter, the better.

Ignoring his tone, Rita blew a strand of her curly blonde hair out of her eyes, straightened a wrinkle out of her bright green, form-fitting robe, and took a seat.

"I guess that means I get no 'Great work, Rita, on the Rookwood piece'?" Rita asked, pretending to pat her own back. "What about 'That piece on the Weasley divorce rumour was inspired'? Or 'Good thing you work for us, Rita, or else Witch's Weekly would outstrip us in circulation'?"

"Shut it," he said, rolling his eyes. "Again, what do you want? Make it quick."

"Harry Potter," she said.

"What about him?"

"It'll be five years this October since the war ended. And as you are as brilliant an editor as I am a reporter, I know you are planning an extravagant commemorative issue. And for that issue, you'll need copy about Potter. I'm going to provide it."

Cuffe huffed, struggling to retain the will to live. "All right, what's your plan?"

"I'm going to find him."

He shook his head. "No you're not."

"I'm going to find him and talk to him and report back on how he's dealing with the loss of his parents and what it's like growing up away from the spotlight, blah bl-"

"No, you're not."

"You don't think I can?"

"No, I don't." He sighed. "The whole world has been looking for him for five years with no luck. Dumbledore and the Ministry hid him too well—either in the Muggle world or, more likely, out of the country somewhere, like Australia. Plus, even if you do somehow manage to track him down, what are you going to do? We can't publish that story."

"What do you mean?"

He put his glass down for the first time since she walked in, and gave her the stare. "Look, I know you're not a complete idiot. You've built a solid career for yourself since you came back to our world, and your pseudonym is still a powerful name in the muggle world. But if you somehow managed the impossible and tracked down Harry Potter, interviewed him, photographed him, and wrote it all up, and if we somehow lost our minds and published the whole damn thing, it wouldn't just be your career that is over but mine as well, along with everyone else in this building."

"Because Dumbledore?"

"Because Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, and Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore and all of his acolytes in the Ministry and his Order have made it perfectly clear that we are to steer clear of Harry Potter until he turns 11 and heads to Hogwarts. If we have patience, we will be rewarded. Besides, you are not the first reporter to come to me with this idea. Remember Malcolm Coldspring?"

Rita paused, frowning. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"I'm not surprised. He went looking for Potter and asked the wrong questions to the wrong people and ended up in so much trouble that he begged the Goblins to let him work in their mines."

Rita shivered. She'd never heard THAT story. Can't be true. I need to check with the goblins. But not now. She took a deep breath. Focus.

"Chief, first, I have so much dirt on Dumbledore that he wouldn't dare threaten me—serious dirt, like 'he will run away to India if it ever gets out' kind of dirt. Second, I would never get caught snooping around where I am not supposed to be like that Colddrink or whatever guy. I am invisible, or as invisible as anyone could possibly be—and you know it."

He did, as he was one of only three people who know of her animagus form.

"Even if that's all true," he said, "and even if you manage to get the story and come away scot-free, it's still too big a risk for the paper and for me. It'd be my neck on the chopping block, and I happen to like my neck attached to my head."

"Well, it's such a pretty neck." He rolled his eyes as she pressed on. "C'mon—It'll be the biggest story of the decade. Are you seriously telling me you would pass?"

Cuffe grunted in frustration. She does this every time, and every time he ends up caving.

"Look, here's what I'm willing to do. You are due some vacation time. Use it. Go away for a fortnight and enjoy yourself. Tell people you're visiting your relatives in Greece. But, if during that time you stumble on a big story and decide to pursue it, then send me the details and we'll figure something out. If it's too hot for the Prophet, then we'll work with that nut-job friend of yours. Best I can do. But if you come back empty handed, then you drop it. Agreed?"

"That's all I need," she said, smiling smugly as she spun around and headed for the door. Ten minutes later, she was zipping down Diagon Alley, ready to get her "vacation" underway.

3 September 1986—Grand Register Office, London

Seriously, how stupid are wizards? Dumbledore has hidden Harry Potter from the world, rendered him invisible with a flick of his wand? No one can find him? Some stupid reporter is confined to the Goblin mines for daring to even look for him? And why bother looking when he's obviously in Australia?

Please.

Apparently, no wizard has ever heard of a computer. Sure, it's a new invention, but has no one in the wizarding world ever seen a movie? War Games? Electric Dreams? Weird Science? Tron? Hello!

One visit to the Muggle Grand Register offices, followed by a Confundus charm and a few Notice-me-Nots and poof! She's an employee with access to the database. A few hours later, Rita knows Harry Potter's home address, the names of his guardians, the name of his school, his NIN, his transcripts, and his medical rec…

Now that's odd. No medical records? None? How is that possible? No immunization shots? No pediatricians? No dentist or eye doctors? Broken bones? Overgrown toenail? That's …?

Who were his guardians again? Vernon and Petunia Dursley. Ah, I see Vernon is no stranger to law enforcement. Drunk & disorderly, petty theft, assault charges…all within the last five years and all dismissed with no penalties. That can't be a coincidence.

Time to make a house call.

September 4, 1986—Little Whinging, Surrey

Number 4 Privet Drive was a nondescript house in a neighborhood filled with nondescript houses. It had two-stories, a pitch black front door, a pleasant and well-kept yard, a nice window with ugly curtains, and that was about it—save the wards.

It was late afternoon when Rita apparated to Privet Drive. After disillusioning herself, she activated the mage sight on her glasses and started examining the wards protecting Harry.

She expected to find wards. Of course there would be wards. There would HAVE to be big, nasty wards protecting the Boy Who Lived, right? But some of these wards were weird. There were the usual security spells, anti-apparition and anti-polyjuice wards, proximity detectors, intruder charms—stuff that she could easily circumvent. But there was one ward wholly unknown to her. Her glasses displayed it as a dark red, like blood. Blood ward? Dumbledore put up a dark magic blood ward? Hell, if that's the case, it'll be a front page story all by itself.

It's rare to encounter blood wards that aren't outside Death Eater homes, so her knowledge of them wasn't advanced enough to know how to overcome it. Pandora? If anyone would know, it would be her.

Later, then. Right now, the focus is reconnaissance. Who is at home? Who comes to visit? What are their patterns? Are the wards all the protection Harry has or are there aurors or Order members monitoring the house? She found a spot against a large tree, sat down facing the ugly curtained window, and watched and waited.

Vernon Dursley was fatter than even Rita figured he would be. He waddled out of his car about 30 minutes after she arrived, opened the front door, and yelled, "Get out here, boy!"

Seconds later, a tiny boy came running out. He followed Vernon to the car boot, which he opened. The boy took out a heavy box that was almost as big as he was. He struggled with all his might until he got the box on the ground, and then he followed Vernon back into the house, dragging the big box with all his might.

But Rita wasn't looking at the box. She was looking at the boy. Harry—it had to be Harry.

Hera, what have they done to him?

His clothes were far too big and threadbare, his face and arms sallow and emaciated. Just the act of getting the box out of the boot seemed to have drained him of all energy. From her vantage point, it was hard to tell, but it seemed as though he had bruises near his neck and on the parts of his arms that were visible. This boy has been abused, and that abuse didn't start yesterday.

Rita—arrogant, heartless, manipulative Rita—wrenched at the sight of him. Why is this happening? What the Hades is Dumbledore thinking?

For five years, Albus Dumbledore's only response when anyone asked him about Harry Potter was that he was safe and healthy and in a loving home, and he would remain happy and out of the spotlight until he headed to Hogwarts.

Now she knows: Albus Dumbledore has been lying to everyone for five years. If he's lied about this, then what else is he lying about?