Okay, so I will be the first to admit that this story was definitely not planned. Unless you count the last couple days' angry muttering filled, sharp pencil pokings as planning.
This all started with a little background for Non Omnis Moriar and scrolling through tumblr late at night. Posts upon posts of explicit and implicit abuse that Harry went through at the hands of the Dursleys, Snape, his fellow schoolmates, Voldemort and yes even Dumbledore just wouldn't leave my head up and until I realized that it wasn't just Harry.
Many beloved Characters went through some serious shitty behavious from our other beloved characters, at the end result of dying.
So, this is as much about Harry, as it is about the rest of them. Will it be a spitefic? Maybe, will it turn things about where I see they could've gone better planned? Definitely.
Growth is realizing your fave people aren't all that amazing. Growth is writing fiction about what could've gone better.
I'll stop blabbering here.
Do enjoy the following fantasy of how Harry could've been raised better if only someone had stood up to Albus Dumbledore a few times. (PS I love you Dumbles.)
Disclaimer - All Canon fodder belongs to JK Rowling. Original Content, (which will be a lot hopefully) belongs to me. All Rights Reserved.
The long, straight lane of Privet Drive had just fallen silent again. The few trees had their leaves ruffled, the hedges subtly shivering in the breeze that went by, the only witnesses to the magic that was being performed out on their streets.
The harsh crack sound that echoed through them again attracted no attention, even as a few muggles jolted, but then turned over and went back to sleep.
The figure, who had just popped into being at the very end of the driveway looked about, head swiveling this way and that.
When Lisa Westfield had decided – quite impetuously – to apparate to this suburb in Surrey, she didn't know if it would be the right one or not. Unlike the magical towns that she was familiar with, muggle settlements usually looked so similar, bar if they were in a well known place which had some form of landmark.
She had no idea if this was the place she had seen.
She had no idea if she would find what she was looking for.
On top of all that, her head was splitting from the effort it took to simply apparate. Perhaps, if she just sat down a little, she could catch her breath. There was no time for that however.
Lisa had timed it a little too close. Her dreams were usually more accurate than her visions so she knew she could trust them when she closed her eyes, concentrated hard on the wooden board that she had seen the Animagus stare at and off she went, hoping against hope that when she showed up, most of the festivities would be over.
She needn't have worried though. There were no wizards or witches on this street; there was nothing remotely magical here.
And so she wondered; what possible use could it have been to leave the Boy Who Lived here, of all places?
Surely there were wizards who would bend over backwards to receive Harry Potter as a son? She hadn't seen these reasons. She didn't really know, but she could guess that Albus Dumbledore had his reasons.
She didn't really care.
Her eyes went to each porch, the lights that glimmered on them helping her see until she reached one particular house. Number 4, had a small tinny orange glow over it, just like all the houses. Unlike the other houses however, this one had a bundled bunch of blankets and sheets left on the doorstep.
Lisa's feet were moving even before she could think of her next step. She walked as close as she could to the mass of cloth, her dark cloak hiding her in the shadows that clung to corners, peering at it.
The blankets had already unfurled, the baby boy's face, neck and chest visible and exposed to the night air. The sheets didn't cover him completely, possibly from the small jerky movements of the child's feet and arms, uncomfortable on the concrete cradle it had been left to.
Lisa exhaled quickly, mind racing. Did she really intend to do this? There would be consequences, big, jarring ones. She didn't even know if the small flashes and wisps of information that she had been handed by her 'gift' were accurate. What if it was just doomsday paranoia? She had been in hiding just as all her kind, what if it had all gone into her head and caused her to think that she was meant to do this?
After all, no one had given her this duty, this responsibility, she wasn't that special. She wasn't special at all…not even in her magical heritage. She'd known that for almost a decade now, hadn't she?
So was she really planning to do this, change things, set in motion the ones that she hoped she was shown to…take on the wrath of Albus Dumbledore?
Her mind was made by the boy in front of her – button eyes scrunching and mouth parting to let out a piteous whimper.
Lisa bent down, kneeling as she fumbled with the folds of his coverings, finding the tell tale letter that she'd barely glanced at Dumbledore writing in his office and tucking in his cloak.
She hadn't managed to understand the whole of what the wise and mighty wizard had written to his spidery scrawl, only enough to write out her own letter. She was pretty sure her own letter would be a bit more reassuring to the hateful muggles than his.
She had seen this boy at the age of close to five, shunned to live under the stairs when he was big enough and her eyes had flown open, blood boiling and plan setting into stone.
She was going to raise the famous Harry Potter; the 'Boy Who Lived' as her own.
Everything after that had simply been calculated divining on her part.
She delved into the folds of her own cloak, pulling out the parchment envelope. It didn't have her name on it, only the small address to the name of Dursley family. She plucked out the letter of Dumbledore and placed them both side by side, right where the child had been placed.
Turning her attention to the still struggling infant she first placed a finger at his cheek, hoping it would recognize skin contact and start to calm down. The sun was going to rise soon enough; the farthest horizon already turning pink and orange. People would be waking up and she couldn't afford for someone to find her on this doorstep with a baby.
As she'd hoped, the baby reached for the warmth of her flesh, whining lowering into small hums and gurgles. Lisa first set to winding the baby tighter in the sheets, she could learn swaddling later. Finally, she rolled the blankets around the bundle of the now calming child. She got to her feet, head thankfully not pounding heavily anymore. She balanced the child in the cradle of her arms, holding the head carefully.
Glancing back to the letter poised for the estranged relatives of this famous boy, she sighed, once again praying to Merlin that she wasn't ruining things. But then, destiny was relative, and she could only hope to pave the child's way to his fate with as little collateral as possible.
Nobody but her seemed to care – least of all, Dumbledore.
She turned resolutely away, clutching the baby close to her chest and striding down and away from the venomous household. She knew that if she had bothered to read their auras, it would be bleeding with toxins.
No child deserved that.
At the end of the street, she turned the baby's head into her neck, feeling him nuzzle deeper into the fabric of her cloak. Gathering what rest of her courage and strength she had stored away in her heart, she spun on her feet, envisioning her - and now this child's – home.
With one last crack, the street lay barren and silent and as normal as it usually was.
The only sign that something out of the ordinary had happened were the two letters, side by side, narrating two sides of a story, collected by Petunia Dursley who thankfully ripped Dumbledore's first. Her fingers shook, eyes glazed as she looked about wildly for the nephew the letter claimed to have left on her doorstep.
Her panic at the lost child only caused her to tear the second letter, the harsher one. This letter offered no apologies, no condolences for her loss. Petunia only read through it once, settling on the key phrases.
'…I am going to raise him as my own…'
'…can't leave him alone with you…'
'…he doesn't need to be put through what is coming for him…'
The fragile parchment was soon balled in her fist; the two reminders of her sister's world, the sister she hated, the sister who shone while she dimmed, the sister she lost were shoved into the pockets of her housecoat as her husband called for his tea, as her own son started to wail in his nursery.
There would be time to think, she cajoled. Perhaps, Petunia could take a day off of spying on her average, ordinary neighbors and read the letter again. Maybe she could sit down and make some tea when Dudley napped, and truly think about what had happened – and what could be happening to her nephew now.
There.
About a thousand words of pure outrage filled more of my blathering.
I hope you enjoyed it. Please do let me know if I should continue.