Disclaimer: Harry Potter wasn't, isn't, and never will be mine. Only the story and the writing is mine.
They stand, both battered, bloodied and beaten, wands pointed at each other. Undoubtedly the two greatest magical beings to have ever lived, both having gone way above and beyond what most would even attempt to learn when it comes to magic. One the epitome of Darkness, and the other, the most powerful magical in the world, the pinnacle of the Grey. To their left lies one who many considered to be the most powerful- I say considered, because he is now dead. Three titans clashed, two remain. Neither make a move, not wanting to waste their energy, their stamina, or their magic. One fight pushed them both to their limits. Now, this one is sure to take them beyond. The greatest battle in the history of Magic. The Protector, versus The Abomination. This was, to some extent, how this story started, and this is how it will end. Both magicals cry out at the same time.
Avada Kedavra!
Avada Kedavra!
The flash of green light dissipates, leaving behind a young baby, with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, and a formless wraith, which disappears almost instantly, fleeing through a wall.
The flash of green light dissipates and a young boy sits up straight, breathing heavily, his eyes open wide and his pupils dilated due to the darkness of the cupboard. Turning on the light, the boy looks around, his green eyes surveying the room for any sign of strange occurrences. When his eyes reach his clock, he notices the time is 4:30 am, and sighs, putting his glasses on and exiting the cupboard under the stairs. Even at only seven years of age, it has already become a habit for the boy to wake up before dawn. His relatives expect certain chores to be completed before they wake up, and it is up to this boy to complete them. Harsh, but he has been doing it for a year already, and has no option but to continue, if he wants to avoid certain…extreme reactions, the likes of which he had experienced innumerable times.
He moves quietly, with practised stealth, perfectly avoiding anything that a collision with, would result in noise, even in the darkness, as he sets about doing his work. Within the next hour and a half, he had plucked the flowers, watered the bushes, the lawn and the backyard, alongside having made breakfast for his relatives, along with a piping hot pot of tea.
As he once again disappears into his cupboard, his relatives descend the stairs and set about eating their meals, completely ungrateful of the hands that prepared it. He made it perfect, and they don't like that.
The fat man, who bears a striking resemblance to a walrus, calls out, "BOY! Get your freakish little arse in here. Now!"
He has no option but to comply with his Uncle's demands. He leaves the cupboard and walks out, hands behind his back, head bowed, dressed in his fat whale of a cousin's hand-me-down clothes, which are at least 500 sizes too big for him. He stops at the entrance to the dining room.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon?" The boy's voice is soft, meek, and scared. But his mind? Oh it is anything but that. For you see, it is not simply the boy who inhabits his mind. There is also another voice, it started speaking to him approximately two years ago, asking the young child to refer to him as Tom. And due to Tom, the child knew.
"The bacon was burnt, freak! Do you not know how to fry a simple piece of bacon?!" Vernon was clearly faking it, and the boy knew it.
"I do, but Uncle Vernon! It was perfectly cooked!" The boy tries to protest, as his aunt and cousin laugh at him.
"And how would you know that, boy? Unless you tasted it?!"
"I did taste it, Uncle Vernon- to make sure it was-" The boy is rudely interrupted by his uncle, with speed unimaginable to that of a normal human, grabbing him and slamming him against the wall.
"You dare, freak?! You dare lay your filthy freakish tongue on our food?" The boy flinches, realising that he made a big mistake.
"Uncle Vernon! Please! I'm sorry! Aunt Petunia- please! It was a mistake!"
He receives no response from the Aunt, who remains silent, staring at her nephew with undisguised glee at what will soon befall him.
The last thing he sees is his uncle, towering over him as he drags him to the stove, lights it, and sets his hand aflame. He hears his uncle laughing madly as he passes out from the pain.
Incidents like this had been regular occurrences in the Dursley household at 4 Privet Drive.
Early morning on the 1st November 1981, the Dursleys had found a baby in a basket outside their front door, left there with a letter tucked in, like a common milk bottle. As they read this letter, a flood of emotions could be seen cycling through their faces, finally settling on anger. Petunia took the baby inside, and Vernon "cleaned" the cupboard under the stairs, and tossed a mattress in there for the baby. And he was left there, alone, and uncared for.
The residents of the neighbourhood were told that the boy was the spawn of a drunken reprobate and a stripper, both of whom died in the car crash that gave the boy his scar. The stripper was Petunia's sister, they were told, who was sent away from home at the age of eleven to attend a school for special children, which the Dursleys insisted was more a school for the mentally disabled.
The way they brought up the boy, and their own son Dudley, could not have been more different. Dudley was a spoilt brat, who got everything he asked for, had two rooms- one simply for his toys, which should be an insight as to exactly how many he had, and was huge for his age. Petunia and Vernon insisted he had big bones, but it was very clear to everyone that it was simply flab and fat.
On the contrary, the boy was thin as bone, clearly malnourished, and scarred all over from the beatings he received. He refused to meet the adults' eyes and shied away from human contact. Everyone was told that, being the child of mentally ill parents, the boy too, had inherited those problems. Within the first few months of school, the teachers heaped praise upon praise on the boy, and they had nothing negative to say about him to his guardians, and the common feedback was that they didn't think he was. However, Dudley was jealous, and angry that the freak received compliments when he didn't, which of course resulted in his parents beating the boy for daring to upset their darling boy. Since then, the boy retreated into himself and the mentally ill image began to grow.
What none of them knew was that the boy was far, far more advanced than most children of his age, because you see, the boy was indeed different. Just not in the way that the residents of Privet Drive believed him to be.
When he came to, he felt no pain, none of the burning sensation that he'd expected. All he saw were four paintings peering at him curiously. He stands up to take a closer look at them.
"Well hello there, young man!" The man who speaks looks rugged, and has three scars beginning above his left eye and ending just in line with the bottom of his nose. He's clearly old, as his hair and beard are grey. But even so, his hair is neatly combed, falling down regally onto his shoulders.
"Y-you can speak!?"
"Well of course we can! We're magical paintings!" This is the painting to the aforementioned man's left. A beautiful woman, whose eyes show wisdom of someone nearing their 70s, and yet, shows no sign of wrinkles or any sort of age. Her raven black hair, reminds him of his own, as did the man's face structure.
"M-magic? So I'm not a freak? I just have- magic?"
The other two paintings speak up, or yell, rather. "FREAK!? Who dared refer to our son in such a manner?!" The red haired, green eyed woman, and her raven haired, hazel eyed husband, wearing glasses, neither looking a day older than 21, seem apoplectic. Surprisingly, all four people in the four paintings seem to be holding back tears. The boy had no idea why. But something the younger two said clicked in his mind though.
"S-son? Who- Who are you people? You know me?"
The old man speaks up now, "Of course we know you. We're your family! Charlus Fleamont Potter, your grandfather."
"Dorea Lyra Potter, your grandmother."
"Lily Carol Potter, your mother."
"James Charlus Potter, your father. And you, my son, Are family."
"M-my name is P-potter? The Dursleys always called me freak!"
"They what?!-" James explodes. "WHO PUT YOU WITH THEM!?" The boy, not expecting such an outburst, steps back and falls over onto his backside, scared.
"James! Stop that! You're scaring him!" Lily chastises her husband, who shuts up, and sheepishly scratches the back of his neck "Sorry, love. Sorry son."
"It's- it's okay…father. B-but where am I? And What is my name?"
"Stand up!" The sharp voice of his grandfather jolts the boy, but he realises the tone is not one that allows for disobedience. He does as Charlus says.
"Stand straight young man! Stop hunching your back! Shoulders back, chest out! Stand tall!" As Charlus vocalises each order, the boy follows, and soon, he is standing true and tall, like the warrior that he will be, that all Potters have been.
"Good. Now ask your question again. Do not whimper, do not squirm, and do not stutter. Speak like a man of your standing!"
The boy nods, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, before exhaling. He processes his thoughts and calms himself down, not noticing the proud smiles that have appeared on the faces of his family when seeing him do this.
"Grandfather Charlus, Where am I? What is my name?"
Charlus speaks, reverently, and with pride flowing in his tone. The magic of the room flaring, swirling around the boy in recognition of the Last Scion of the Potters, "Heir Hadrian James Potter, of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter! You, my dear grandson, are in the Potter Ancestral Manor, your home. The home of many Potters before you! Stand true young man, for you are the Last Scion of the Potters!"
As his grandfather said those words, he felt something awaken within him, he felt energised and revived. Wisps of green magic began to flake off from his skin as a wind began to blow within the room as this young boy's aura finally let itself go free.
Fate may have dealt him a cold, hard hand, but he was determined to script his own destiny. He knew nothing of the workings of the world. He knew not how ruinous it could be. But from the way his grandfather said his name, he knew that He would have to become great. When he dies, this world will remember his name. Hadrian James Potter.
He did not know what was happening, but a strong will has magic of its own. Unbeknownst to anyone, even the Gods above, this boy's will had begun to unravel the magnificent tapestry of Fate. It will be a long time before anyone notices the changes, but by the time they did, it would be too late.
Author's Note: My first story. I'm a university student, so I would expect updates to be slow, and without any set schedule
This story is inspired by a lot of others that I've read, and if there is anything that is heavily inspired or highly similar to anything the other stories have, I will provide due credit.
Chapters may get longer as I get better at writing, but who knows.
Thanks for Reading!