(Invocation of Good fortune and blessings since I've been sitting on this particular Plotfiction for around seven years, and I've now managed to put it into writing. It''s also part of Vaishnava etiquette to glorify a whole lot a people before you start.
And loo! It worked!)
—-
I give my humble obeisances to the Vaishnava community of Montreal, who have given me shelter from all sorts of Calamity and to Radha-Manohara for having stolen my mind before giving it back to me, now filled with the absolute truth.
I fall at the lotus feet of my Guru, Bhakti-marga swami, the greatest Vaishnava playwright in our modern time, following the writings of his own guru as the bedrocks for his illuminating dramas and plays. Oh most Humble, he whose feet have tracked all over the world, you who is known for taking the most fallen souls, the rejects and outsiders. Those who are the outcasts of outcasts. May you be pleased with the dramas I have written. May you be pleased with my attempt for this Script, my strongly worded and overly long letter and a kick to Rowlin's head (A soul can be split… why I oughta.)
I fall at the divine feet of Gaura-Nitai, who gives love of Godhead to all, irrespective of their belief, caste, creed, and whatever else that seems important in the material world. The Dual form of God, of the most merciful, loves us so that they, in their unlimited mercy, empowered a weeb to rave about him. Isn't it wonderful?
And finally, I pay my full obeisance to the Montreal temple presiding Deities, the most Beautiful Sri-Sri Radha-Manohara, who stand tall in their united trinity church, appearing in the most dilapidated of caves as a show of divine indulgence.
Montreal used to be called the city with a thousand staples, and where I live, so many churches are nearby.
And yet, Bhagavan and his ultimate Shakti have decided to grace us all with their presence in a brick church, tuning the old burrow filled with drunkards, prostitutes, drug addicts, and the rejects of society their love-filled stronghold, waiting day and night for that fallen soul to ring the doorbell and receive their blessings.
I was one of those souls, fallen in illusion, an animal on two legs… and now a priestess at his service… a maidservant of their super-qualified servants, really.
I thank him, who holds the flute as he dances, Radharani holding his peacock feather, an ornament that had fallen from his head, a gentle, teasing smile on her cherry red lips.
May Sri-Sri Radha-Madan-mohana take my mind and give me the skill necessary to bring A Very Vaishnava Potter to completion, and may it touch ten million hearts.
… Right, I'm done with my Pranama, let's drag the HP canon through the sacred dust and give a lesson to Joker Rowling!
~7~
Suppose anybody would ask about the family living at number four, Privet Drive. They would say that they were some nice folks, a bit odd and fond of Indian cuisine but still very kind—a nice couple with their one-year-old boy.
They had… rather odd names, tough. The man, a rather portly gentleman Varaha Deva Das, and his chaste wife Prtvi Devi Dasi.
The two always seemed to be up well before sunrise, and some children who really should've been asleep had reported that the two would be singing the same song in Curry-eater tongue.
Then they realized…
It was the Hare Krishna song that George Harrison had put in his 'My Sweet Lord' single. The family was Hare Krishna …
And well‐liked, too, Varaha was a proper gentleman. Working at Grunning, working hard to maintain his wife and brand new baby. Rumours had it that his dear waif of a wife had to get a cesarean to get the big boy out (And this gave her some complications, poor things.).
She was now struggling to get up the stairs. And thus, she was camping in the living room; her husband had even gotten her a hideabed in a very tasteful colour.
Truly, Varaha Dursley was a gentleman, despite being part of a cult... An inoffensive and rather colourful cult, but a cult nonetheless.
And thus, the Dursleys were left well enough alone… but the neighbourhood watcher Had noticed an old cat, a queen perhaps, lurking around their home, even getting some milk out of it.
Otherwise, all was quiet in Privet Drive… as it should be.
~0~
The night was quiet at this time, but a scant few hours after midnight. And all who lived in the Dursley household slept peacefully… or would be if not for Prtvi's painful pelvic.
A parting gift from her first and last pregnancy, an ectopic one that had almost ended with her out of a body and her husband out of a wife.
Neither were ready for that, especially with a little one needing so much from them.
Thank Krishna, she hadn't left yet. But poor little Dudilobha would be an only child robbed of the joy ( and sorrows) of having a younger sibling.
Nevertheless, Pritvi had made her peace. If Bhagavan desired her to have more bundles of joy, then she would be able to conceive against all hope. But right now, Little Dudhi was her whole world, and she and Varaha had sworn in front of Yashoda-Krishna that they would raise him right and that he would 'hopefully' go back home, back to Godhead in one lifetime.
Oh, Prtvi Devidasi? How did she look?
She was a lanky blond who, to some… rude prankster, was likened to a giraffe wrapped in ugly Christmas paper.
Well, at least her style was timeless, unlike some.
Her husband, Varaha Das, was suffering from metabolic syndrome, meaning that whatever he ate was immediately turned into fat.
No, he didn't overeat, for it was something the Vaishnava of old frowned upon.
No, he wasn't lazy; his running shoes were well-worn.
No, he didn't overindulge in sugar or alcohol and he was careful around ghee and fried food.
There was close to nothing they could do to thin him, but Varaha had everything under control at the moment.
He still managed to outdo most new bhaktas, but considering he was not that old himself…
Pritvi shook her head. No, better not worry too much; her divine pigman was not about to keel over anytime soon. And even if this were the case, she had a whole temple ready and willing to help her get back on her feet.
Krishna did say to Arjuna that to his Devotees, he would provide what they lack and preserve what they have.
"If only you could give Duddhi a little brother, though." The Vaishnavi said dreamily, not expecting anything from Bhagavan, since it was by his will that everything worked out, and not by hers.
She resumed her reading, it was the nectar of Devotion, Srila A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami's translation, compilation, and commentaries on Bhakti Rasamrita-Sindhu, of the deathless nectar-ocean of devotion, by Srila Rupa Goswami, the leader of the six Master Acharia of Vrindavan.
Prtvi had always wanted to read this work, but somehow, in her days as a bhaktini, she always got too busy to read, for she wanted to be part of every sankirtana, every cooking class (one had to reach a certain standard before their delicious offering be given to Sri-Sri Radha-London Ishvara.)
And then there was already the Bhagavad Gita to study, then the entire Srimad Bhagavatam and the Caitania Craitamrta and then came Duddhi's complicated birth.
And him being the fussiest baby in all of London.
Thankfully, they had caught on to his lactose intolerance in time, and Duddhi-kin was now a happy, giggly baby… still fussy and demanding.
Nevertheless, this was to be Prtvi's reality only when her baby boy would wake up… hopefully, in two more hours.
But, before the Vaishnavi could return to her sacred book, a terrible racket resounded from the other side of the usually sleepy road; it sounded like an old motorbike with a pierced muffler falling from the sky…. And striking the road.
Spooked yet overwhelmingly curious, Pritvi left the shelter of her perfect couch and went to peek out the windows hidden behind her thick curtains.
Outside, the street was as dark as the night itself; only the moon and the stars provided light for this dark and cold first of November. And yet, somehow, Prtvi could see the dark dealings happening in the street.
There was a mountain of a man talking to… a wizard, handing him something. A bundle wrapped in some colourful cloth.
The cat she had fed Maha-milk this morning turned into a human, and Prtvi could not ignore it; those were wizards.
And the closer the trio came…, the more she recognized the tartan-wearing witch.
How could she, when she had come to ruin whatever friendship she had with her sister by telling her she was a witch now? Thankfully, after meeting her husband and letting him work his slow magic on her, Pritvi realized that all of them were souls and that there was no reason to hate Lilly over her Karma.
It had taken years, but… she had just started to exchange letters with her until they stopped.
Perhaps the Magical world was better for her; birds of a feather flock together, after all.
Or, perhaps… Something worse had occurred; Prtvis' right side had spasmed hard enough to fear epilepsy.
But… considering the Scottish witch and… the painfully obvious elder wizard and the bundle in his arms.
"Oh Lord, give me strength.'
And then… this wizard, Dumbledore, left the bundle on Pritvi's doorstep, spoke again to McGonagall, put a letter on what…whatever was down there and walked away…
Only do disappear with a pop.
The moment he was gone, all light returned to the street light.
With her heart about to leap out of her chest, Prtvi moved away from her gossip curtains and went to the front door, carefully opening it.
She was not a brave woman, and while she had stopped killing spiders and other critters, she would have her husband shoo them out. And she definitely loathes getting into unimportant fights … unless her Duddy-kin or Prabhupada were being insulted, then she would show her claws.
But this…the vaguely baby-shaped bundle he's placed at her doorstep, and McGonagall's teary, grim eyes…
Something was going on…
But, knowing that waiting would not make it better, Prtvi Devi prayed to Bhagavan for strength… and opened the door to her second God-given son.
She didn't find the enchanted parchment, nor did she fall to the enchantment.
It took a trip down to the precinct to discover the identity of the babe as one Harry James Potter, barely a year old and already parentless.
The Police had no idea what had happened, but since Prtvi was next of Kin, she had the parental obligation to raise little Harry.
Shaken by the news of her sister's death, Prtivi let her husband, Varaha, ultimately make this decision.
Have another mouth to feed, a traumatized child from another world who had already witnessed death and who would have to adapt to a pair of strangers, and not mum and Dad anymore… but still be with family. Or brave the social service and the less-than-ideal foster care in the hope he would land in a loving family.
They did exist; Varaha was proof of that.
Varaha-deva did the logical thing.
"We're keeping 'im."
Ten years later.
It was September first, and the whole of the Wizarding world was holding their collective breath.
It would be Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived's entrance into magical society. And for Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the reintegration of his Queen into the magical world…
No, wait, scratch that. Chess similes were not deep enough for what Harry was.
He was Albus's key player to make sure Tom would never change the wizarding world as it was before, with all the wild magic and darkness around.
It was wild magic that had killed his sister, after all. Uncontrolled dark magic.
But… as much as Albus loathed it, he had a plan…
A gruesome and somewhat unpredictable plan… a plan he hoped would not come to be but still had to.
No way he would leave. Even a single part of his… disgusting ex-pupil left; for all he knew, Harry Potter was but an empty husk and Tom was on the cusp of once again entering the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.
Circe, he hoped… he hoped it was the case. Otherwise, he would never be able to look into James and Lily's eyes once he finished this adventure and finally be laid to rest.
Suddenly, well, not so much for him, the massive doors to the grand hall swung open, and in came the soon-to-be sorted.
Albus put on his patented grandfatherly smile as he scanned the students, noting those who came from the Dark families, those whose compulsion and ambition would lead them to untold evil.
Like Tom, Albus had plans. Plenty of them to reach the ending he wanted, a world free from the Dark Influence and easy magic for all… a perfect blend of Muggle and Wixen.
Perhaps he would also be worshiped.
But alas, this was but a dream and it would remain a dream as long as Potter would not be on the board.
Speaking of which, Minerva had reached the 'd' part of the name roster, and sure enough…
"Dursley, Harry?!"
Wait… what!?
Harry Dursely nee Potter was.. I am less than impressed with the so-called Magical world.
Sure, Diagon Alley (Diagonally, hah.) had been impressive at first, and Gringot was the best bank he had been to, the Goblin being exceedingly nice and helpful to him and his Family, despite them being Muggle and barely related to him.
But since Shiva, the best of Vaishnava, was their worshipable Lord, nobody was…that surprised.
But otherwise, the moment he stepped into the 'magical' train, Harry's wonder was well and truly done.
Rama-Chandra had told him enough stories about the Magical world for Harry to have made his decision on it.
It was a waste of time. Sure, learning magic sounded cool and all, and super convenient. The scourgify spell sounded perfect for cleaning up after a Sunday feast, and the aguamenti meant that you had an unlimited Achman cup…
But otherwise, Harry wasn't all that keen with his ill-gotten fame.
He didn't kill anyone as a baby. He may be called Harry, but he was by no means Hari, the supreme personality of Godhead and the killer of the baby-eating witch, Putana.
Besides, it was more likely his mum did something since she was a responsible adult and all that, and a Hogwart graduate…
Maybe he should've fought harder to go to Ilvermorny.
The train ride had been… Well, definitely less crowded then the ones in India and cleaner then the tube, but it was all alone; there was no Dad telling amazing stories about his own travels and ancient pastimes, of his mom's sweet Kirtana, or just taking the piss with his ever-expanding brother.
No, he was alone… all alone, without his mom, dad, and uncle… What to say of other Vaishnavas.
At least, at Ilvermorny, Harry would be close to a few temples and Hare Krishna centers. Here, the only nearby village was Hogsmeade, which was sadly devoid of even a small church.
What a shame.
At least the name of the ancient, ghost-filled castle was a wonderful reminder of his dad, Varaha Deva Das, and his namesake, the boar form of God.
Nevertheless, he had seven years to survive in these walls, hoping that he would not fall prey to Material pleasure and the lies of false pleasure.
Perhaps those were lofty thoughts for a mere eleven-year-old. But Harry wasn't a mere eleven-year-old, he was a fortunate soul who had received the great blessing of Bhakti-devi and got to grow in a Vaishnava Family who loved and took care of him unconditionally.
"Dursley, Harry?!" The headmistress stumbled on her words.
'Ah, that's my cue.' Harry thought as he approached the tattered hat; they had a rather beautiful singing voice and while Harry had half listened to his song. (cooperation was one of the main tenets of Iskcon's branch of Vaishnavism.) He wondered if perhaps Mister Dumbledore would be willing to lend them to Harry over the summer; Krishna knew what this poor living entity was doing for the rest of the year.
Nevertheless, it was time for him to be sorted and to start the scariest seven years of his life.
Harry was already feeling homesick.
He missed Duddhi, the smell of his cows and of fresh cow dung spread on the floor of his home. He missed his mom and dad; he even missed his strict teacher who finally managed to teach him how to read and figuring out his need for glasses.
He had to spend nine months away from his family and the Bhaktivedanta manor congregation, stuck in dreary, cold Scotland in an old, stale aired magical castle… a ghost-filled magical castle.
But so far, Harry wasn t impressed… oh sure, the animated sealing, the floating candles (that would look just spiffy in a temple room.) and Daigon Alley
(Gringot had been so cool, and the Goblins were such a cultured race.) but beyond that?
"Oh Harry, why, oh why did you accept to go to Hogwarts… oh right, the call of adventure. I really should stop jumping without thinking… or think with my smart brain, and not my potential fun reckless brain.)
Well, he was there, might as well do his best with a bad deal. Besides, he could help his parents with their services once he knew a few tricks.. And maybe…
No, His Dad and Guru told him it was better to preach by example and not by words.
Not yet, at least.
So, taking his God-given courage and the knowledge that his Family would love him no matter where he went. Harry made his way to the three-legged stool where the old leather hat (eww), all ripped and tattered, waited for him.
As he walked forward, he could feel the piercing gaze of the sickly man and the headmaster, a shiver coursing through his spine and Supersoul warning his servant of their… less than ideal disposition.
At least, he wasn't a Potter to the Hogwarts population. Just a Dursley, a Muggle born.
It had protected him on the train, and it still protected him.
Once he sat down, the witch in green (MC something) dropped the rather old and very magical hat on his head.
Suddenly, all sounds stopped, and darkness was all he knew. "Huh… bet it would be a nice place to chant under. Like with Bhaktivinoda and his… wait, did he chant under a bucket? Or was it in a closet with a blanket on his head?'
Meanwhile, Dumbledore waited in bated breath as Harry Potter was undergoing his sorting, sealing his fate.
He had to go to the house of Gryffindor. He needed a foolishly brave knave to go in battle, not a sneaky, ambitious, devious snake. Or, Merlin forbid, a Hufflepuff.
Oh, sure. Those were Loyal to a fault, but they had no drive, and their head of house was a nightmare to deal with.
She wasn't a badger; she was a buffalo protecting the herd's youngest, all horns and weight.
Worse would be a Ravenclaw. Those were too smart to be fooled for long. Only a few noted his balderdash quotes, indicating they were getting too bright. Dumbledore would have to reduce their curriculum again… or perhaps, propose to Flitwick an early retirement and lead the house himself.
No, not killing him. Dumbledore was the leader of the Lightwixen; he didn't stoop this low.
Nevertheless, actions would have to be taken if Harry ended up in the wrong house; the wizened headmaster already had a few ideas, but no. He needed to have faith.
He had heard from the portraits that the youngest Weasley boy had attempted to befriend the Boy-Who-Lived and failed—apparently, the little light wizard's attempts at protecting the muggle-born from the future Slytherin claws had not impressed Potter, who had already befriended Malfoy.
This... wasn;t supposed to happen. Pooter was not supposed to be able to make friends. How would he know when he should've been kept isolated and socially awkward? not that befriending Wesely was such a bad thing but still!
Malfoy!
Bu no... no, things could still change, his delicately laid plan would not fail, the enchantment Dumbledore had but on the letter all those years ago had been applied with the elder wand, and short of an act of God, (Which would not come as a surprise, since magic was the world of the devil, after all.) nothing could make it fail... in theory.
The sorting dragged on longer than Albus's wandering thoughts. What was wrong? What caused this Hat stall? If this keeps going, Harry may break a new record…
Tom's record.
Ablus felt a shiver down his spine; the dark lord would mark him as his equal… yes, I can see that.'
After what seemed to be an eternity (and Severus grumbling about how this must be Potter, simply for the prank he was pulling and his attention-seeking behavior.) The Sorting Hat finally spoke.
And Potter made history again.
"... All of them."
—-
"What do you mean, all of them?" Albus asked calmly despite his heart still racing.
"I mean what I said." the sorting hat said, annoyed that his authority was ever questioned. He, too, had been shaken by Potter's sorting. "Albus, I know we've had plenty of close calls, and I am told to let the child choose whatever House to go to when there is a tie," he explained. "But Dursley-"
"Potter." Albus interrupted; this was Harry Potter, for him to happily take his relatives' names…
Now, leading the boy to his destiny would be even harder than anticipated… but not impossible.
The Hat ignored him with practiced ease as he addressed the rest of the heads of houses.
"-Has all the House traits… and he has them all at the highest I can sense."
"He is kinder than Helga herself, loyal to God to the point that some would call would call fanatical. Not that he is; Dursley's mind is hale and bright. No other student is as pure-minded as he is."
"Poppycock"
"You will let me continue, Severus. Otherwise, I'll be changing you to Gryffindor!" he snapped, and Severus paled, which was an achievement in itself. "Now, Dursley is also hard-working, and yet, he can also seem lazy. Only because what we tried to teach him does not line up with his religion. But give him a subject he can use in a muggle setting, and he will be all ears.
"His thirst for knowledge knows no bounds, and his wisdom will only grow until even Merlin will have to bow to him."
Outraged gasps filled the room, but the Hat continued nonetheless.
"His bravery, Ninievs; it's … he sees death as his best friend, and his only fear is the void… no, not death, Albus. The cessation of existence."
Albus' face fell… just like Tom.
True, he'd understand that death was the next best adventure, but… in the end, the void awaited everyone equally.
No wizards or witches had pierced the mystery of death, not even Merlin, whose only cure had been to cast Arthur Pendragon in ethereal sleep as he lay on his deathbed—hoping to find a cure at a later date.
For Albus, he chose to see it as the next big adventure filled with mystery, for who knew what lies beyond the Void.
So to see death as his best friend?
…
All things considered, perhaps all was not lost.
…
No, Albus couldn't think like that; Tom having made some Horcruxes, was just rumours at this point… plausible rumours, but until he could find one of his phylacteries, then it was but speculation.
Still… That Harry Potter saw death as a best friend at a young age…
Perhaps leaving him with the Dursley was not his more brilliant flash of genius to date, like pining after Gellert and giving his brother Tom goat Amorettia.
But… what was done was done, and unlike the last two of his dubious ideas, this one was backed by Logic.
Harry had been the cause of Tom's downfall, giving the Wizarding World ten years of respite from the fear and pain that the Dark Lord brought with him. But with Harry now an orphaned boy carrying… a Part of the Dark Lord and the cause of death of said Dark Lord, he now had a major target painted on his back. So logically, Albus had hidden little Harry with his Mother's remaining family in Surrey, in the most boring of neighbourhoods.
And he had enchanted the letter to ensure a humble boy once he came to Hogwarts. Pliable, brave… but Humble, humble and thirsty for everything magic.
What did he get?
A mistake, surely. This young boy walked with pride, his head high, his eyes holding fire.
This…
Would not make the prophecy true; for Harry clearly wasn't surviving but thriving.
The headmaster, deep in his rumination, only gave token attention to the Hat, who kept extolling Harry's qualities, going on and on about how all houses fitted him and how to keep him in only one would never give him a chance to bloom and fully grow into himself.
"Be as it may," Ablus cut through. "Both of his parents went to Gryffindor, and thus, this is where he shall go."
"Hogwart does not answer to you, Brian." The hat growled. "She had already prepared his accommodations. He will have his own room and his own place of eating, as requested by Ragnok."
'What!"
"Hogwarts wasn't built by humans, you know." the Hat asked his rhetoric. " Now, will you please let the poor child rest? He has had a long and arduous day and tomorrow will be his first day of class, and he wakes up before dawn."
After this, Dumbledor could not do anything but nod; for a while he was the headmaster of Hogwarts, the school didn't belong to him.
Still… as long as one survived, the other could not live.
He dearly hoped this cult was as bad as the rest; the magical world could not survive another run with Tom.
Once was enough… for now.
—-
Dear Mata, dear tata.
Please accept my humble obeisances, all glory to Srila Prabhupada.
I just went through my first week of magical school.
I didn't like it.
The Cat taught us how to turn a matchstick into a needle, and that was after she turned a desk into a wild boar.
We learned how to make things float, and I guess, now that I think about it, it would be useful to serve Sri-Sri Radha-Londonishvara, it would be perfect to decorate their altar and the temple room. Unfortunately, when I said that to our charms teacher (he's a half Goblin.) he told us that we can't use magic when we are with Muggles, mundane folks.
I get it, I do. Demons are greedy and they want power, but I'm sure the Pujaris would be mum about the whole thing. Besides, everything would be done behind closed doors.
The Castle is old and filled with ghosts, and I don't know if I can chant Hare Krishna close to them without having them complain or not. Is there a rule about exorcizing ghosts? I hope no ghosts come close to me when I chant my Japa, I don't want to end up in trouble.
Maybe I should, though. Since maybe Dumbledore would expel me and I could resume my studies at the Bhaktivedanta Gurukula, I miss Varsana das, Nandimukhi and Ekanath. And my cow.
Anyway, I have to go to bed now. I have potions tomorrow…
Pray that Dumbledore did not forget my vow of Ahimsa, otherwise, I don't know what will happen.
With all my love, your son Hari (Harry.) Das.
P.s. Duddhi, I know you want an owl, but I fear for my life thinking about posting this letter even with a bubble head charms and a maha-protego on. Love you Bhai, Don't eat all the Sandesha.
—-