I don't own Harry Potter.

Warnings: Language, AU, Character AU, Human! Dumbledore, Logical, Abused, Young! Harry, Godfather! Remus, Abusive! Dursleys, and umm... I'll probably add/change more later.

Pairings: None as of yet. Could likely have slash pairings in the future, so beware.

Beta: If anyone would like to volunteer their services for this story, that'd be most welcome. I can't promise how quickly chapters will be written, but I've got a good amount of frame work. I'd love someone to go over the chapters and perhaps bounce ideas off of. Message me if you're interested.

Author's Notes: I'm trying to work out a balance with Harry's character. I want him to be independent and sensible, but also showing the nature and side effects of his negative environment and however mature he may be, that he is only eight years old (soon to be nine). Also, as stated in the warnings, Dumbledore will not be evil. I would have made this chapter longer, but it just seemed to want to end where it does. Chapter 2 is almost complete. Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and favourites!

Summary: "Hey, Moony?" Prongs whispered, his lips curved in a small, contented smile. "Would you be godfather?"

A Two Arrowed Sign

Look both ways before crossing the street. You never know when you may fall and weep. There is no right or wrong, but what is human and what should remain unsung.

Chapter 1

June 1, 1989

Hogwarts

Albus Dumbledore chewed thoughtfully, the slightly sour treat bursting on his tongue. He was staring down at another letter, probably the hundredth of this kind he had received since that sad Halloween night. It was Remus Lupin, once again asking for permission to see Harry, perhaps talk with him about his parents and make sure he was happy. And one again, Dumbledore would have to respond with a short, polite refusal. The man just didn't get it. No matter how many times the werewolf would play the godfather card, Harry couldn't be allowed any contact with the wizarding world. It just wasn't safe. He was only looking out for the boy's wellbeing. The Muggle world was the safest he could come to being, especially with the blood wards active around his aunt's house.

Of course, there was another advantage of having no contact between godfather and godson, and that meant that he could have complete control of how Harry was introduced to the wizarding world and therefore his views of it. Albus knew that Harry would one day have to face Voldemort and that meant that he would need to keep him far away from the ones would try to change his ideas of the light. He needed Harry to trust him and follow his lead. After all, Albus was the only one who held the information on how to destroy Tom Riddle. He needed Harry to be willing to do anything to destroy Voldemort, even if it meant his own death. Albus knew the world wasn't black and white, but Albus was an old man and Harry was just a child. It was easier this way.

He didn't believe that Petunia Dursley could ever be unkind to her nephew – they were family after all – but he knew there was a large possibility that he wouldn't be the most loved child around. That was a sacrifice Dumbledore was willing to make – it was the safest place for the boy. However, if Remus came to form a relationship with Harry, it would ruin many of his plans. The Marauders had always been far too sneaky and observant to suit Albus – they were a good ally to have, but they wanted too much information.

He held a great many secrets close to his chest and they were things that must stay secret. He was the icon of the light – what would happen if they found out about you, Gellert? What would happen if another young child fancied the idea of existing forever? Albus wasn't a cruel man, nor did he want to take over the world. He just needed to destroy Voldemort before Voldemort destroyed the wizarding and Muggle worlds alike, and Harry Potter was only way that he could do that.

It was for the greater good after all. Maybe he hadn't changed as much since Ariana's death as he liked to believe.

June 14, 1989

Number 4, Privet Drive

There was a pattern to the Dursleys household. Harry had come to know this pattern like the back of his hand or the lightning shaped scar on his head. It was easy, when you had lived with the greedy, hungry souls for as long as he had. The eight year old has been subjected to their ways as long as he could remember, and as long as he could remember he had been an outcast, a fifth wheel, a leech attached to their perfect, wonderful family, tainting their image and their lifestyle. He had accepted that fact, for there wasn't much of a way not to. Sometimes he believed it too, thought maybe there was something seriously wrong with him that no one loved him, but other times he just felt angry. Angry that they never cared; angry that he was so different than all the other children because his relatives hated him; angry that his parents had gone and off-ed themselves, leaving him all alone.

Harry was smart. He knew how to cook bacon and fry eggs just the way the Dursleys wanted, how much butter to put on their lightly browned toast, and how high to fill their glasses. He knew that Uncle Vernon liked two sugars in his tea, four ice cubes in his whiskey, and had a temper than any child would be a fool not to fear. It was these little things, things that never changed (for the Dursleys weren't the adventurous type, never trying new things even if it was just a different meal instead of the normal beef and potato Friday dinners) which had kept him alive to reach his short years of eight and these little things that he hoped would keep him alive until he finally had the resources to leave this horrid house.

Harry had been stealing loose change and placing them in the safest spot in his cupboard since he had come to the conclusion that it would be completely idiotic and extremely painful to stay here until it was within his legal rights to go without an adult guardian. He wasn't sure how much money he had acquired since this began, but it wasn't enough. It would probably never be enough. There were too many expenses in life, literally and hypothetically.

Street-smarts wasn't something Harry was efficient at, but he was a thinker. He was calculating and sneaky, cunning and logical. Sometimes he wondered how much of his thinking abilities came from his genetics and his environment. Of course, according to the Dursleys, Harry's genetics weren't all the great anyway. But there was also the wonder of how much of his life was lies and how much of it was just half-truths – for the Dursleys were certainly not honest, caring people.

Harry sighed, shaking his aching fingers out in front of him. There were various blisters scattered across the red and lightly scarred skin. Garden work was something Harry wasn't in the least fond of; one, because they never gave him gloves; two, because being in the hot sun for hours without water and a break was just inhuman. They'd be happier if I died. He grimaced, closing his eyes against the blaring rays of the sun, focusing on the pain in his hands with all his might. He had been able to do this since the window incident when he six, and while it had scared him funky at the time, it was a useful ability that Harry continued to never take for granted. Immediately the pain dulled to a soft throbbing feeling, healing the small cuts and vanishing the thorns sticking into his palms. His hands remained red and scarred though; no matter how much he wished they would disappear too, they never did. His gift only ever healed open wounds and numbed the pain, never pacified scars or bruises. But it was better than nothing, right? He would have died by now without it.

He could never describe what happened when he 'healed' himself, so to speak. It was more like wishing with all his might that the bleeding would stop and the pain would go away. Like when Dudley cries for a band aid and Aunt Petunia makes that noise in the back of her throat and kisses him on the forehead. Usually, it left him exhausted and on the verge of fainting, but that was just the bigger injuries now. Harry had concluded that his 'ability' was like a muscle: the more you work it, the easier it is to use, the stronger it becomes. So he just felt a bit winded by the time his hands ceased to dribble blood.

Standing up and wiping the sweat from his forehead, probably smearing dirt onto his face in the process, he headed over to the shed, grabbing the large can of white paint. Every summer since his fourth birthday he was given the chore of painting the fence, leaving it coated in a glistening, fresh white that left many of the neighbours envious. That's what the Dursleys cared about above all else, their reputation. They needed to be the people others envied and wished to be; they needed to have the things others coveted and dreamt of; they needed to be praised above all. When that failed to happen, they got angry and Uncle Vernon's purple face always meant pain for his nephew. They were never ever satisfied with what they had. Harry just wanted someone to love him and one hot meal a day.

He shivered, speeding up the movements of his paintbrush. If Harry didn't get the first coat added by the time Uncle Vernon came home from work, it would end badly. Harry liked to believe he was more mature than his whale of a cousin, but that didn't mean he wasn't a child. He was only eight years old, and just like every eight year old, he got frightened and he wanted to curl safely in his mother's arms away from the mean monsters in the world. But Harry's mother was dead and his Aunt was a witch and his Uncle was the very monster normal children would run from.

He had no way out.

The most precious thing in Harry world was his stuffed wolf – it had an ear chewed off and was missing an eye, but it was his only possession. He'd had it as long as he remembered, leaving him with the belief that it had been left with him when he had been shoved into the grasp of his unwilling relatives. It made him feel safe when he was left alone in his dark cupboard under the stairs, confided by the lock to listen to the crawling of the spiders on the wall and the creaking of his small cot. He was used to the dark, tiny space, but that didn't stop his dreams of soaring through open skies and finding freedom.

If Harry wished he could do anything in the world, it was fly. Feel the wind in his hair and a weightless pulsing in his veins, laughing with delight at the knowledge that he was defying gravity. But that was impossible. Impossibilities come true everyday though, don't they?

"BOY! Get in here, now!" Aunt Petunia yell-whispered at him from the back door. She would never actually raise her voice at him unless every door and window was sealed – it wouldn't do for the neighbours to hear her annoying screeching.

Harry quickly turned and entered the kitchen, ignoring the look of always-present disgust on his Aunt's face. What did I do wrong? She had always looked at him like that. "Yes, Aunt Petunia?"

"Don't take that tone with me, freak!" She scowled, her pinched face turning an ugly shade of red. Freak. You're just a freak. Unwanted. Abnormal. Unloved.

Harry knew very well that he had answered in a polite, respectful tone, but that didn't change. The Dursleys heard what they wanted to.

"Take the garbage out and then go to your cupboard. Vernon's bringing home guests. If I hear one sound out of there..."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Grasping the large, smelly bag that the horse-like woman held out, he trudged towards to door. The bag was heavy, but he was used to it by now. His arms felt weak and occasional black spots danced in front of his vision due to lack of food, but that was normal.

Harry wasn't normal though. His world wasn't normal. His aunt and uncle called him a freak for the unnatural things he could do – like turn his teacher's hair blue or talk to snakes or re-grow his hair. He had just come to accept that he wasn't the definition of normal and some people would probably have a heart attack should they find out about his healing abilities.

Throwing the bag in the large can by the side of the house, Harry turned to go back inside, when a voice behind him made him freeze.

"Hello."

He wondered for a moment if the voice was talking to him or someone else. It was most likely someone else; no one ever dared say a word to the freak that lived at Number 4, Privet Drive. He was well known for the horrible things he did, even if they were all just rumours or lies. But yet, he wanted the voice to be talking to him, because it was soft and slightly awed – not harsh and accusing like the way his relatives spoke to him or the taunting jeers of his school mates. The voice also sounded familiar in a strange, odd way.

Harry threw a quick glance over his shoulder and was shocked to find the man looking straight at him. He had blond hair and stood stiffly – uncomfortable, Harry thought, having gotten pretty good with body language – and he had soft blue eyes that were staring at him with such intensity that Harry wanted to squirm awkwardly. He also had a thin, white scar down his cheek, clothed in faded, heavily mended...robes? Why would someone wear robes?

"Can I help you?" He asked in a polite tone, wondering why on earth this man was talking to him.

"Are you happy?" The stranger burst out, his eyes looking wild for a nanosecond, his voice sounding almost desperate.

Harry tilted his head to the side, his frown deepening and his eyes widening in slight hesitation. He looked back to the window to see his Aunt's face glaring at him and knew he was in for it. He winced, knowing the pain that was bound to happen in the near future for him talking to someone and ruining the Dursleys' good name by spreading his abnormal nature through the neighbourhood. If I could fly, I'd leave here forever.

"Harry?" The man asked again, looking slightly concerned. How did this man know his name? Most of all, why did he care?

"No." And Harry couldn't understand for the life of him why he had just told a stranger that, why he had just admitted that out loud. He had never honestly considered what it meant to be happy, but he supposed it was like drinking water when you hadn't gotten any for two days or taking a bath for the first time in weeks, no matter if the water was freezing cold, or those times at night when he would curl himself around his stuffed wolf and pretend. This is all just a nightmare and I'm not a freak.

Turning, Harry ran back to the house as fast as he could, a part of him terrified of what the man would have said if he stayed; another part equally terrified to return to the house he had hated since he understood what emotion was.