A/N: I started this a long time ago, after finishing "Through the Past, Darkly", and then life happened and I abandoned it. Life continues to happen, unrelentingly, but I've returned a few times over the years and have made enough progress that the time has come to start posting it to hold myself accountable to finally finishing the damn thing. That being said, this is a work in progress and I hope you join me on this odd little journey as I re-imagine "The Cursed Child" and rage against the JKR machine in the process.
If you haven't read "Through the Past, Darkly" yet, I suggest you do. This story rests on the foundation established in that story. You could skip it, but you'll miss out on the backstory of some recurring characters and some connections that would make reading this story a richer experience.
I
The Grass is Never Greener
[London August 1956]
It is far too early. It is always too early. If Francis Crowley never has to wake up again he wouldn't mind at all. If only he could just get to sleep…
Light flits across the ceiling, strange forms mutating, melding, forming shapes. A bird soft, wings spread, drifts across the vast dead space of the dormitory ceiling. Then the shape of the light hardens, its edges shift into a rectangular object, a book falling open, its pages scattering like leaves from a dying tree. The others are sleeping. They're snoring. The girl in the bed next to him draws her breath in hard and releases it like a deflating balloon. Amid the sounds of slumber Francis hears the clicking of heels, adult feet on the linoleum floor, and they are headed in his direction.
"Francis. Francis, wake up." Mrs. Cole says to the child, already wide awake and staring back at her. "You have a visitor."
The girl in the bed next to Francis wakes up and gives him a sneer.
"You're getting adopted before me?" She hisses at his back as he climbs out of bed and pulls on his clothes.
"Fat chance." Francis says, pulling the sheets and blanket up and tucking them in neatly.
They are near about ready to ship him off, he suspects, and as he follows Mrs. Cole down the long dark hallway he figures the time is now. His card has come up. Of course they'd do it in the middle of the night. What nice family would adopt a child in the middle of the night? No, the dead of night is to hide people away. Oh, what happened to that Francis kid? Went to sleep and he was there, and the next day he was gone. Oh well, who cares.
"This man would like to speak with you." Mrs. Cole opens the door to her office and gestures to the man waiting within. An old-ish man with a fuzzy greying beard wearing a frumpy purple velvet suit. He smiles pleasantly. Francis does not acknowledge his presence.
"Francis is one of our more troubling cases. I must warn you, she has serious behavioral and social issues that, despite our efforts, we've unfortunately been unable to correct."
"Is that so?" The man says, regarding Francis with friendly curiosity. "You fancy yourself a hairdresser?" He asks the child.
"We don't know how she got the scissors." Mrs. Cole shakes her head. "When we found her with them it was too late."
What Mrs. Cole doesn't share is that, upon discovery, Francis attempted to stab the staff member who tried to take the scissors away from him.
"I think it suits you." The man winks.
It was the first time someone had even recognized, let alone approved, of one of Francis' attempts to assert his identity. His many requests to be allowed to wear pants instead of the stupid smock dress that was standard issue to all the "little girls" were met with firm dismissal. Francis' haircut was awful, patchy and uneven, but it was the best he could do given the time constraint, and eventual physical restraint from the staff.
"Do you mind if I have a word with young Francis in private?" The man asks, and Mrs. Cole nods.
This is it. This is the moment. The old guy is going to ask some questions, make Francis think that this is being done based on some kind of fair evaluation, but he has some needle hidden in the pocket of that hideous suit that is filled with some kind of stuff that would knock him out, and he'd come to in a white padded room in one of those jackets where they tie up your arms and you look like a mummy. Straight jackets, that's what they were called. Fucking straight people and their ugly jackets. He laughs quietly to himself.
"Is something funny?" The man asks.
"No." Francis says, staring at the man's pocket.
"You're very observant." The man reaches into his pocket. "I was going to save this until after introductions and I explained the purpose of my visit, but you seem to want to cut to the chase."
The man doesn't pull out a syringe filled with sedatives, but a long wooden stick. He waves it in the air and the lights in the room flicker, then little specks of light start to fall from the ceiling like snow. Francis holds out his hand and catches one, a little star that melts in his palm, warming his skin like sunlight.
"So they're selling me to the circus? Didn't expect that, but sure, why not. Might as well make some money off me."
"That's why you shouldn't get ahead of yourself. Jumping to conclusions before you understand the full situation. Your mind is too quick for your own good, Francis. But you'll learn. You'll learn many valuable lessons at school."
"School? They send me to school here."
"Not like the school I teach at. Do you ever make things happen? Things you can't explain?"
"So you are taking me to the hospital. Gonna teach me what is real and what isn't real, is that it?" Francis bristles, staring at the man's other pocket. That must be where the syringe is.
"No, no not at all."
"Listen, alright, I'm not crazy. It's you lot who's crazy to think that my body has anything to do with who I am."
"What?" The man blinks.
"They must've told you? The whole thing with—" Francis exhales. "Right, so you're a bloke, right? And you're like, good with that, like you feel like that suits you. Like when you were born they were all like oh hooray he's a baby boy and you're raised up like that and everyone sees you like that and you see yourself like that and it feels right. Well it's not like that for everyone, and it's not like that for me, and everybody's got this idea that there's something wrong with me, but there's not, there's something wrong with the whole damn thing. It's fucking stupid. And now they want to ship me off because I'm a freak, yeah? 'Cos I'd have to be crazy to think I'm 'something I'm not.' But the thing is its not a thought, not an idea. It's you all with the ideas and that's where this—"
"Oh dear." The man frowns deeply, shakes his head. "My dear child, I am so sorry you have had to suffer such cruelty. No one should be shamed for expressing their true self. You seem like a very self-aware person, very introspective. You have a remarkable gift that we want to help you develop, and your identity will of course be respected. I've known a few people who were like you, and there are options that may make you feel more comfortable in your own skin, as it were, if you're interested. But all in due time. We haven't even introduced ourselves. My name is Albus Dumbledore. I'm a professor at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. How would you like me to address you?"
"My name's Francis Crowley. You already know that."
"I take it you don't like being called 'she.'"
"No." Francis says. "I guess I'd rather be called 'he.' What else?"
Francis lives in a world of absolutes. Black or white. Girl or boy. Good or evil. If you know you're not one, clearly you must be the other. It was even in the name of the school. Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"Well then, young man. I have a feeling you are going to do very well at Hogwarts, so long as you can keep your temper under control and promise not to stab the other students with scissors."
"Dumb name for a school." Francis says, still not entirely convinced he isn't being tricked.
"You don't have to stay if you don't want to. If you don't like it, you can always come back here." Albus Dumbledore says.
All Francis wants is a chance to get out of this hellhole and here it is. Is it worth the risk? His gut was telling him yes. Oh well, what the hell. What's he got to lose.
"Sure. Fine. Alright." Francis says.
"Wonderful. Your things have already been packed. Come with me, there's much to be done." Albus Dumbledore holds out his hand, and reluctantly, Francis takes it. There is a loud snap and a rush of wind and they are gone.
Mrs. Cole yanks open the door and looks around the office, dumbstruck. They were just here, and now they weren't. Oh well. One less problem to worry about. Good riddance.
[Hogwarts 1956-1957]
Francis was not born to fit in. For a brief moment he thought maybe, in this school of magical weirdos, he might not be regarded as freak, but no such luck. Someone would always find something about him that was a problem. He'd practically been given a list his first day, as his new classmates sized him up while waiting in line to be sorted into one of the four Hogwarts houses.
"Sounds like another way to just divide people and pit them against each other." Francis remarks, upon being explained the differences of the Houses.
"No, you don't get it. Your house is like, well, kind of like your family away from home. You all share the same sort of values and strengths." Clara says.
"Don't waste your breath, she's a mud blood. She's too dim to get it." Phinneas sighs.
"I'm not a girl." Francis says, for the fifth time that day.
"Oh yeah? Why do you sound like one then?" Phinneas squints at Francis.
"You got a problem with the sound of my voice? Huh?" Francis cracks his knuckles.
"Are you going to punch me? That's adorable." Phinneas laughs.
He wasn't laughing for long. Francis decks him in the mouth, knocking out two of his teeth. Francis picks them up from the ground and grips them tightly in his palm.
"Oh no!" Clara yelps and runs to get a teacher.
"Fight!" Oswald cries and punches Francis in the eye. Francis grabs his throat and knees him in the stomach, shoving him to the ground.
"Break it up over here!" Professor Binns drifts over. "Now who started this mayhem?"
Everyone points to Francis.
"Francis Crowley? "Professor Binns frowns.
"Yeah?"
"Detention. And ten points from - whatever house you end up getting sorted into. Now come with me. Back of the line."
Francis has to wait in the back of the line with Professor Binns for what seems like hours as all the other kids get sorted into houses. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. He doesn't know anything about them and doesn't really care. They can all go to hell as far as he is concerned. No magic hat was going to tell him where he belongs. He doesn't belong anywhere. That's what he is thinking when he takes to the stage and sits on the little three-legged stool. What the hell is he doing there? What a fool he is.
"You think this is all a farce?" The hat speaks directly into his brain, and Francis looks up at the ragged brim just above his eyebrows.
"Yeah, and so what?"
"You have a lot of anger in you, and not a lot of hope. Hmm. A lot of sadness for such a young boy. You're confrontational, but that's not really your nature is it? No, you…"
"What are you, an analyst? Get out of my fucking head. There's nothing wrong with me. I don't need a hat to tell me I hate people. I hate people because they suck."
"You couldn't possibly be anything but Slytherin."
"You don't know anything about me."
"You are a Slytherin." The hat says before announcing to the entire Great Hall that Francis Crowley is the newest member of Slytherin house.
"Oh great." Phinneas rolled his eyes as Francis sits down at the far end of the Slytherin table. "That hat must be going daft, sorting a mud blood into Slytherin."
"My blood's just as red as yours, Phinneas. See?" Francis says, taking the knife next to his plate and slicing a large gash in his arm.
"The kid's insane! Professor, Crowley is threatening me!" Phinneas yelps.
"What's with the teeth?" The young girl with stringy hair sitting next to Francis asks. She points to Francis' plate, where he's deposited Phinneas' missing teeth.
"Possession is nine tenths of the law." Francis says. One of his most used phrases back at the orphanage.
"Can I have one?"
"Which one do you want?"
"The pointy one."
"Yeah, sure." Francis hands the kid Phinneas' canine.
"Cool, thanks. I'm Alex by the way. Alex Gibbon."
"Francis Crowley."
"I think your blood's pretty. The color, I mean." Alex says.
"Thanks. I'm sure yours is nice too."
"You want to see?"
"No, that's alright. Can you pass the rolls?" Francis asks, then proceeds to eat the entire basket.
Despite being a born a muggle, Francis quickly shoots to the top of his class. While his knowledge of magical culture is still lacking, his aptitude for spells and potions, as well as his incredible ability to retain almost every piece of information he heard or read causes him to outshine his fellow students, whether he likes it or not.
Francis is desperately trying to be himself, but he is consistently being rejected. Too feminine, too violent, too smart, to rude. The years go on and the list gets longer and longer. Too smelly, too poor, too hungry, too strange, too depressing, too cruel. Undefeated in feats of physical strength and mental prowess, but in matters of luck he often fails, and when he fails, he fails miserably. There's a reason he doesn't gamble. His instincts are spot on, but his deep need to prove people wrong always wins out, and he, in turn, has never won a bet in his life. It is quickly becoming evident that he has taken a risk on this Hogfarts school for Bitchcraft and Dickwadry and it was another bad bet on a lifelong losing streak. Maybe it's time he folded his cards.