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: A huge thank you to the lovely Nursie91!

Author's Notes: Here you go! Chapter 3 is finally complete. It went a bit differently than I originally planned out, but I think it fits together pretty well. I was going to have Vernon instead of Petunia, but this just kind of happened. I'm really striving to keep Dumbledore human, but very determined to end Voldemort. Tom had destroyed so much of the wizarding world and when hope was almost swept away, there came Harry. It would only be natural for a wizard with such power and influence (along with the title of "Leader of the Light") that he would automatically think it is his job to prepare Harry for his so-called destiny, right? Thank you to all who followed, favourited, and/or reviewed!

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 3

June 18, 1989

Number 4, Privet Drive

Harry hated when the Dursleys had guests. He had to sit in his cupboard and listen to his Uncle's false laugh and his Aunt's sickly-sweet tone and his cousin Dudley try to impress the people with his "intelligence." Dudley had blond hair that stuck to his scalp like sticky glue and resembled a baby whale, with his large torso, meaty arms, and short stature. The temperamental child had always done everything in his power to get Harry in trouble, purposely breaking items or coming back with crazy tales of how Harry had tortured him during break at school. However, as many nasty traits Dudley possessed, he wasn't intelligent. So Harry found that listening to the fake laughs of the guests were worse than the Dursleys.

Harry had gotten a particularly bad smack in the face that night – after the guests were gone and his uncle had cracked open his new bottle of whiskey. Thankfully, the man had gone to bed shortly after, muttering about freaks and how he deserved to get a humongous raise for entertaining those idiots. Harry had never been so glad it was summer, for the dark purple colouring on his cheek would have gotten him made fun of. Not that they didn't make fun of him without the bruises – it just would have made it worse. The teachers never cared, never tried to stand up for the child with the baggy clothes and lopsided glasses that came to school with bruises on his wrists. Like every other person around they were aware of his reputation and steered clear of him. He hated adults for that reason. If you grow up just to give up every piece of compassion and humanity you possess, he'd rather kill himself than reach that stage. Adults were not to be trusted. Of course, their behaviour towards him had an upside, for he could get horrible marks and never be called out on it.

That was one of the unspoken rules in the Dursley household – unspoken, but certainly showed. He could remember coming "home" from his first day of primary school with a shiny A and getting one of the worst beatings of his short life for showing up their precious Dudley's C. From that point on he had worked out a way to barely scrape by, just enough so he wouldn't be held back. That didn't mean he never tried. He absorbed the information like a sponge, spending his free time in the school library – for his own curiosity, and to get away from the other children, specifically his cousin's "gang." He would read until his eyes started to water due to the lacking prescription in his glasses, wanting to know and find and see. He wanted to be better than his relatives, do something worth remembering – show the world he wasn't just the unwanted freak that lived on Privet Drive.

However, Harry certainly wasn't a genius. He could hold his own in common sense and logic, but he didn't speak fifty languages or develop a cure to some unfortunate disease at eight, almost nine years old. Nevertheless, Harry was learning – he wasn't just shoving it off with all the excuses that would be completely understandable. He was trying with everything already laid on his small, boney shoulders. That was worth more than achieving the highest marks, wasn't it?

Harry rolled his shoulders, glancing back up at the sky. It had turned a threatening gray in the past two hours he had been mowing the lawn and adding the second layer of paint to the fence. There was already thunder echoing around him, but fortunately the rain seemed to be listening to his prayers. If it started pouring now, the new paint he had just added would get ruined, for it hadn't had time to properly dry yet. He stared at the paint with careful eyes, feeling a drop of water fall on his forehead. If only he could somehow dry it, saving himself from the punishment of wasting a can of pain and the money Uncle Vernon worked 'very, very hard' for. Wondering, he lifted his hands, glancing back at the house one last time, and concentrated. He had been able to do freaky things before – he could heal himself (well, not fully, but still)! Shouldn't he be able to dry this paint before the storm fully hit? Then he would escape to the house and set the table for the Dursleys and maybe sneak out after they got to bed to steal some food from the cupboard. Scrunching his face, he watched with awed eyes as a pale blue mist seemed to come out of his palms, enveloping the fence. He stared as it encircled the structure and moved slowly, leaving perfectly dry white pain in its wake.

Then he was struck harshly on the head with a heavy metal cooking pan, making black spots dance cheerfully in front of his eyes. He looked dizzily around from the source and found, to his uppermost horror, his aunt standing behind him, pale and staring at him in indescribable fear and loathing. She was scared of him, of what he had just done. But what was so scary abound making paint dry?

"F-freak!" The woman spit, stepping away from him, as if his very presence was contaminating her. But then her eyes seemed to gain a gleam in them, something that resembled his uncle too much to end well. "You're just like her, you know." She sneered. "I swore when we were forced," Aunt Petunia stressed that, showing him just how unwanted he had always been; "to take you in that we would beat the freakishness out of you!" And then she raised the pan again and, with all the strength her boney arms possessed, hit him.

It connected with his shoulder, a loud crunching sound ringing in his eyes. The black spots that were still dancing in his vision from the previous blow turned white. Pain enveloped him. It hurt so badly, like there was fire licking up his shoulder. Before he could even muster the strength to scream, she hit him again. Again and again, and Harry had never wished for death so much. This was different than the feel of his Uncle's fists or the gruesome sounds of a belt meeting his back. Perhaps it was her tool or her malicious eyes or the feeling of twisted betrayal tainting his gut. His Aunt Petunia had always preferred never to touch him. Now she was probably going to kill him. For making paint dry.

It was almost funny.

The rain was pouring down on them, leaving his hair sloshing against his forehead and his too-big clothes sticking to him uncomfortably. Blood splattered form his nose and his right cheekbone was surely broken. He wasn't screaming and his Aunt wasn't talking, but he knew what she intended to do. Could he stop her? That wasn't really the question though, was it? He could stop her – push his palms out and unleash whatever sort of power he possessed. But did he want to stop her? Did he want to continue living like this?

Death would be easy. He'd see his parents, perhaps, and the stray dog that used to visit him when he was four that had been hit by his Uncle Vernon's car. He would be able to move easily without hurting. He would get warm food. Right? Dead was supposed to be kind, let you slip away in a world of wondrous discoveries. He supposed maybe he would go to hell – for being a freak, as his Uncle said. Hell, the large man had glared at him, is a place for horrible, freaky people and you would will no doubt rot there, boy. But was Harry a horrible person? He had never tried to harm anyone purposely; he had never meant to intrude on his relatives; he had never taken pleasure from the neighbourhoods' fearful eyes. I used to have dreams of a voice singing to me. It was a comforting voice – I could never make out the words, but it was a beautiful tone. I hold onto those dreams like I do my stuffed wolf. It's the closest thing I have to a family, someone who loves me. If I die, there's a least a fifty percent chance it could be good. Unlike here, where I'm not ready yet – I don't have enough plans made and money saved. There is no hope.

He was holding onto consciousness with bleeding fingertips, eyes closed. He had almost fully given in, when a voice cut through his eardrums and the weapon his Aunt had been using to murder him banged loudly across the side of the garden.

Privet Drive

It was a darkened sky that greeted Remus when he apparated to the Dursley's street. Rain was beginning to fall and lick the concrete in the old alley he landed in. He pulled his robes tighter around his frame, blocking the rain. As he walked, he could see some families through their unshielded windows, smiling and laughing. You would have never guessed this street had a secret. He forced the scowl from his lips. He really didn't know of all the horrors Harry had experienced here, but he hoped to Merlin it wasn't as bad as he feared. What would he do then? How could he possibly help a child who had only known hate and abandonment?

His feet pulled themselves along, a gnawing sense of urgency beginning to explode in his head. Something was wrong – very wrong. He couldn't figure it out. He looked around him, pausing his steps. No Death Eaters. Dumbledore wasn't there, or at least were Remus could see him...

Harry.

He hadn't even been aware he was taking off before he was in a blind sprint to the large 4 marked on one of the look-a-likes. There was the same spotless garden and high white fence that kept all strangers' eyes away that he had seen only four days ago. The paint looked new, as if just dried and he praised the timing for whoever had to paint it, for the rain was falling in large waterfalls from the sky. His robes were soaked down to the core and his eyes blinked rapidly against the sheets of raindrops.

He could smell blood. His sensitive wolf nose came in handy on occasions, allowing him to recognize familiar people by their scent or smell when magic had been done. He could recall the smell of the giggling green-eyed babe, just barely; it was so faint under the large scent of rain and blood. He yanked the fence's gate open – or tried to – and growled furiously when it refused to budge.

"Alohomora!" Remus whispered, dread filling his stomach. He knew as soon as he did magic, Dumbledore would be aware. Perhaps the man would just believe it was Harry doing accidental magic, instead of an actual wizard hanging around. He prayed that would be the case, for this was his only chance.

Magic was only monitored in the Muggle World, around muggleborns' homes. It left the underage wizard trace a laughable excuse to pureblood wizards or those halfbloods that lived with an adult witch or wizard. As long as you were in a place where magic was done regularly, the Ministry had no way of knowing just who had done the magic. So Dumbledore would have no way of knowing if it were Harry's unbalanced magical core getting disrupted by a large emotion or Remus using a simple unlocking charm.

Entering through the gate, he froze immediately at the scene before him. A boney, horse-like woman with sticky blond hair, soaked to the bone, holding a large pan, was beating a small boy. Rivers of red mixed with the rain and clumped against the small boy's black fringe. Harry did not scream, nor did he look to be crying. His body had relaxed, almost like he was sleeping. He looked almost peaceful, with crimson seeping into his too-large shirt and purple staining around his right cheek like the face paint children applied at Halloween. His small body bounced slightly with each hit; he looked more like a doll than a boy.

Remus could feel the wolf inside of his clawing viciously to get out, tear this Muggle woman into pieces for even daring to hurt his beloved cub. His hands shook as adrenalin and horror burst through his veins, his heart pounding in a loud, uneven rhythm. He was frozen in shock and horrified fascination. How could someone do that to another person, least of all a child? His brain finally kicked into order and he was raising his wand again ("Expelliarmus!") pushing the Muggle woman against the fence harshly and her weapon flying into the large, perfect garden. He ran over, his legs feeling like lead, to the small boy, fingers digging into the side of his neck. He could hear the boy's soft heartbeat in his ears, but that wasn't enough to satisfy him. He finally found the sluggish pulsing, nearly slumping in relief.

Anger, which could hardly be described as anger, burst through him as he pushed the black locks from his godson's bloody forehead gently. He could easily see that his right cheekbones was broken, the skin badly bruised, blood sweeping sweetly from the wound. His right arm was twisted at an awkward angle, clearly broken. His left arm was fallen limply at his side, obviously having been trying to protect his face. Several fingers on that hand seemed to be broken. Blood was gushing out of a large wound on his head, turning his black hair a crusty auburn. He remembered head wounds always bleed like waterfalls and calmed down slightly. Harry would need to be healed though, and bloody fast.

He picked the boy up, careful not to irritate the wounds even more, glancing at the knocked out woman lying against the fence. He wanted to kill her – or at least give her some type of punishment for what she did to his godson, but he knew he had to get Harry to safety. He didn't know how much longer the boy had. He had also done magic a second time and he had no doubts that Dumbledore would send someone to look around.

There was a reason he was called the level-headed Marauder. He needed to think about Harry now, not the revenge he would make sure to get later on. Pressing a kiss to the boy's bloody and rain soaked head, he turned on his heel and apparated.

Hogwarts

Dumbledore was sitting comfortably in the Kitchens, picking at his chicken and brooding. He did that a lot. He had many memories to brood on, you see. Albus had been alive for many years, seen many things, and learned many life lessons. However, he wasn't all-knowing and he didn't have the right to make decisions for other people – sometimes, he forgets that. He was brooding on Severus Snape this time, thinking of the man's sneering face and kind heart. Albus knew that man didn't really have that certain flare to be the perfect teacher, but he certainly had the knowledge and the skill. Severus had come to him with red eyes and a hopeless energy, begging for life of the woman he loved. He had been shocked, remembering the friendship that Severus had with Lily Evans, but not believing it had run so deeply. He hadn't promised the dark-haired man that he could save the redhead, but he had said he would try. And he had, but some things are written in fate, prophesied by the very creators of magic.

Snape would indeed be immensely useful to him when Tom returned from wherever he was biding his time. He had kept the poor boy from Azkaban and given him something to do with his life, keeping him close enough that should Tom make any plans, Albus would know of them. He knew it was unlikely that Severus would make it through the next war, leaving a small sorrowful voice in his head shaking with grief. The young man was exceedingly brilliant a potions and had created many different useful formulas during the war and continued to do so. He was also remarkably witty, when one looked passed his sour attitudes and snide replies. It was a protective defence, Albus knew, that had formed from a less than pleasant childhood and the horrors that seemed to dance within his very eyes from the war.

The prophecy couldn't have arrived at a better time, nor could tiny Harry Potter, with his mother's bright, curious eyes and his father's mess that people still seemed to call hair. Dumbledore hated to admit it, but he doubted he could have killed Tom. He was growing old and his magic, while still very powerful, didn't replenish itself as quickly as it had in his youth. Tom rarely showed himself during battles, anyway, allowing Death Eaters to pounce upon the terrified wizard and witches in common places such as Diagon Ally or St. Mungo's. Tom would visit important wizards, to kill them himself, or have one of his many Death Eaters take them captive so he could torture and then kill them. The war had been becoming uncontrollable – hope was beginning to fade away like a gentle breeze and rain had started coming in large, crackling storms.

Then he had come across a spark of hope when interviewing for the next Divination Professor. It turned into a full flame when he realised that the two children compatible to the prophecy were the Longbottoms' or the Potters', each in his Order and each trusting him impeccably. It had been surreal at the time to think their saviour, the destined defeater of Lord Voldemort, was in either Alice's or Lily's womb.

Albus raised his fork to his lips again, chewing the chicken slowly. Neither child had displayed magic in their infancy, which wasn't rare. In fact, if they had, it would have been a cause of great concern. Most children didn't have their first bursts of accidental magic until their third or fourth birthday, unless in great distress. Ariana had been an exception, doing magic practically just after birth. But her magic had always been temperamental, fading along the lines of destructive and productive. She had also always had wild magic – even touching their mother's wand led to a pulse of magic that caused things to shatter beyond repair. She had been very powerful, but very uncontrollable.

He signed, taking a sip of his tea and then dropped it clumsily to floor when a buzzing sounded loudly through the walls of his mind. An alarm one of his instruments had gone off. He jumped off his comfortable chair with surprising agility and hurried to his office, which was a long ways from his current placement in the Kitchens. Finally getting to his office and rushing to his collection of silver instruments, panting lightly, his eyes zeroed in on the one that was spinning wildly. His skin paled slightly, staring at the same item that had gone off once already a few minutes ago. That meant only one thing.

There was a wizard doing magic on Privet Drive.