Disclaimer: Gonna blame Cal for this one.
A Different Dursley
James became aware that something was bothering Lily shortly after she agreed to become his wife. It took him nearly three days to get to the root of the problem which, to his immense relief, was not because the girl was having second thoughts about becoming his bride.
"I don't know if I want to have a magical wedding," Lily confessed. "If we do, my family won't be able to come. But if we don't, our friends won't be able to."
"Two ceremonies than," James suggested, willing to do anything to get the look of distress off of his future wife's face. "One magical and one muggle. That way your entire family can come."
"You're willing to do that for me?" Lily hiccuped. "I was afraid one wedding would be too much for you to endure."
"Two weddings means two wedding nights," James rejoined. "Besides, I love you, Lils, I can survive two weddings."
"Oh, James," she sighed, leaning into him.
"Three on the other hand . . ." He shuddered.
"James!" she giggled.
IIIIIIIIII
As they prepared for the wedding, James was starting to seriously regret the fact that he'd been so quick to agree to a second wedding. A second wedding meant more preparation, more preparation meant more time in purgatory.
"Are you sure about inviting Vernon's sister?" James asked. "I mean, anything related to that tub of lard . . ."
"Is still family," Lily said firmly. "Understand?"
"I understand," he sighed. "What about . . ." he trailed off as her eyes flashed. "Never mind."
IIIIIIIIII
Marge wasn't sure why she'd agreed to come to her brother's sister in law's wedding, not like she knew either of them, not like she wanted to after listening to Vernon's stories about the odd couple. After presenting her invitation, she found herself sitting next to a bearded savage clad in a wool sweater that no decent person would think was appropriate attire for a wedding.
'Well, nothing to do it but suffer through it and hope he doesn't want to talk,' she told herself, doing her best to keep anyone from noticing how she was looking him over.
"Duncan Wallace," the big man introduced himself in a voice that was as soft and solid as a granite mount. "Bride's cousin."
"Marge Dursley," she said with a blush. "Bride's brother in law's sister." She gave the man a much closer inspection. He was just over six feet tall and barrel chested. His hands were heavily callused from working with ropes and nets while a network of wrinkles emanated from the corner of each eye from squinting into the sun to spot buoys.
A wide smile appeared on his face, letting her know that she'd been caught and he wasn't displeased at all about her interest, causing her blush to deepen.
"Doing anything after the wedding?" he asked casually.
"What did you have in mind?" She shot the big man a matching grin, suddenly glad she'd decided to attend.
IIIIIIIIII
A single tear worked its way down Petunia's cheek as she finished the note that had come with the child the freaks had abandoned on her doorstep, her sister was dead. She blinked a couple times and wiped off her cheeks before picking up the basket and walking into the kitchen where Vernon was having his breakfast.
"What's that?" the big man demanded.
"Lily's brat," Petunia replied, trying to sound uncaring. "They want us to take care of it."
"I won't have it!" Vernon bellowed. "I won't have that thing in my house!"
Petunia waited for the tirade to end and let her husband stew for a few minutes before offering a solution.
"I . . . I was talking to Marge the other day," Petunia said hesitantly. "She said she was thinking about adopting."
"Foist the freak off on my sister?" Vernon blustered.
"Or we could keep it here with Dudley," Petunia said quickly. "I'm sure it won't do our son any harm to grow up with it."
Vernon stared at his wife for a few seconds before nodding his head. "Call Marge, give her the good news."
"Yes, dear," Petunia agreed. The woman was elated to have accomplished her two goals so easily; her nephew was safe and would grow up far away from her nice normal life. The boy would grow up in a loving, if unusual house, she'd owed Lily that much.
IIIIIIIIII
Duncan knew something was very wrong the minute he saw his wife waiting for him at the end of the pier. Love had made her beautiful in a way no cosmetics or surgery could have matched, even with the weight of sorrow in her eyes. Cutting the engine, he made sure the boat was tied up before leaping to Marge's side.
"Lily's dead," Marge croaked, her face pale. "James too."
"Harry?" the big man asked, feeling sick to his stomach.
"Alive."
"Thank god the little one survived." Duncan pulled the woman close. "What happened?"
"I don't know, just that it wasn't an accident," Marge admitted.
"I see." His hands, hands that could crush a brick to dust clenched impotently.
"Petunia and Vernon want us to take him in," she added softly.
"Of course," Duncan agreed instantly. "He's family." Speaking of which, whomever was responsible had better hope to hell he never found them. He was a man of the sea and the sea would hide his secrets or sins if it came to that.
IIIIIIIIII
Life was happy for Harry, growing up as he did in a little stone cottage perched above the bay. He loved everything, from the warmth of the cast iron stove to the clack of his adopted mother's knitting needles as she made a new Guernsey to keep the chill off of his father, as the man pulled his income from the deep.
Like most boys, Harry idolized his father; believing the man to be an epic hero torn from the pages of a storybook and brought to life through some wondrous mystical event. The happiest day in his young life was the day his father came home, gave a slow nod, and suggested that he might be big enough to start helping out on the family's fishing boat.
Harry woke before the dawn and spent a few minutes shrugging into his outfit. The boy could already hear his father moving about and he knew that the big man would leave him behind if he was even a second late. The boy loved summers, it was the only time of year he wasn't chained to a desk in the tiny village school, the only time of year he was permitted to do a day's work to learn his future trade. For the first time in Harry's young life, he felt like a man.
On the boat, Harry worked until his arms ached; cutting bait, sorting the catch, and doing everything else that a lad his size was capable of, having to be restrained on several occasions to prevent him from trying to do a great deal more, to the amusement of the small crew.
It was a good day and they were rewarded with a good catch, prompting one of the crew to suggest, to the boy's secret pleasure, that they take Harry on every trip, that the boy was some sort of lucky charm.
Harry's mother was waiting on the dock when they arrived, a pensive look on her face and a yellow envelope clutched in her fist.
"What is it?" Harry's father asked, leaping off the boat to join his wife as soon as it was properly tied up. A spike of fear pierced his heart, remembering days long since past when his wife had waited on the dock, a similar expression on her face.
"This arrived earlier today," Marge said. "It's for Harry."
"Is something wrong?" he asked, his heart beat slowing back to normal.
"They want to take him away for school," Marge said softly. "He'll be away for most of the year if we say yes." Which was her main objection to the whole thing, it had nearly killed her to see her precious baby boy away with the fishing fleet. She couldn't imagine being without him for the majority of the year.
IIIIIIIIII
Minerva's eyebrows rose when she read the name on the envelope. She'd expected to have to go through a great deal more trouble to get the boy his letter. Leaving the baby on the Dursley doorstep was one of the greater regrets of her life. A hundred times she'd gotten her things together and set out to rescue the poor child and, to her eternal shame, a hundred times she'd convinced herself that Albus knew best.
"And they say Gryffindors are courageous," she sighed. "Some example I am."
Her letter opener made short work of the flap and her eyes quickly took in the contents of the letter. It was not, as she'd expected a letter of acceptance or even one of rejection. It was better, it was an excuse to finally see for herself the boy's living conditions. It was her duty to greet new muggle born as Deputy Headmaster after all.
IIIIIIIIII
Marge stepped out of the cottage when she saw the old, wood paneled, Morris Traveller pulled to a stop in front of their gate. A nostalgic smile lit the woman's face. She hadn't seen one of the old estate cars for quite some time. It was good to know a few of them were still on the road.
A distinguished looking woman wearing a rather severe skirt stepped out and walked to the front gate. "Am I at the Wallace residence?" she asked.
"Yes," Marge agreed. "May I ask why you've come calling?"
"I recently received a letter filled with questions regarding young Mr. Potter's education prospects, I'm here to answer them. May I come in?"
"Of course," Marge said, remembering her manners. She stepped forward to open the gate. "Please do. May I offer you a cup of tea?"
"Thank you."
"I'm afraid Harry and my husband are out and will be for some time," Marge continued. "I'd have kept Harry here if I'd known you'd be here so soon."
"My fault for being too thoughtless to write first," Minerva assured the woman.
IIIIIIIIII
Harry noted the strange woman waiting with his mum when his da eased their boat, UL181 Hitra, with the care of an artist making the last stroke of a masterpiece.
"Mum!" Harry called out. "We got a load of crays!"
"That's wonderful," Marge replied. Catching the ship's rope and tying it to the dock. "This is Professor McGonagall, she's come to talk about Harry's schooling."
It hadn't been difficult to persuade the couple that sending their child to Hogwarts was the best thing for the boy. It was a job she'd been doing for several decades and it was clear that the woman believed every word she was saying and so she was in Diagon Alley escorting the boy to Gringotts to pick up enough gold to pay for his school supplies. Oddly enough, that had been the most difficult part of the conversation. The boy's parents had insisted on covering the charges themselves and it was only after a whispered plea that the Potters be permitted to do something for their child that they'd relented.
"Key," the goblin said blandly, holding out a hand.
"Here you are," Minerva said primly, handing the boy the key and gesturing that he should hand it to the goblin. "Aside from the goblins, never let anyone have it. If willingly given, it would allow anyone to take anything they wished from your vaults. The only one besides you that should ever hold it is your wife after you get married."
"Yes, Professor."
Aside from the usual supplied, Harry insisted on buying a couple of gifts for his parents. For his mother, he bought an enchanted spinning wheel that would turn raw wool into the finest yarn. For his father, he bought a set of oilskins that were charmed to keep the wearer warm and, if necessary, afloat. They were just the sorts of things everyone pretended not to know muggleborn gave their families. Things that, while not illegal would be frowned upon if the Ministry was forced to take notice.
"Is that everything, Mr. Potter?" Minerva asked as the boy dragged another purchase to the register.
"Just one more thing, Professor," he replied, proudly displaying an odd brass device. "It says it'll predict the weather."
"They're not very accurate," she warned.
"Neither is the wireless," he chirped. "Wrong half the time, but I figger every bit helps, yeah?"
They left the shop and were nearly to the exit of the alley when the boy's attention was drawn to something displayed in one of the windows. She glanced down and saw that the boy was staring intently at a group of miniature figures battling it out in the shop window. Represented were goblins, trolls, a number of wizards, dragons, and at least a dozen more types of creatures.
"See something you like, Mr. Potter?" Minerva asked.
"Could we get a set of these for my cousin Cal?" Harry asked hopefully.
"We could," the old woman agreed. "But I'm afraid they'd have to be a stationary one unless he already knows about magic."
"Okay," the boy agreed.
AN: Just clearing out my hard drive again, the unfinished fic files were getting a bit cluttered with half done ideas.
Beta by dogbertcarroll
Ideas and Scenes by Doghead Thirteen
Polish by: Derek Dees
Omake: Siblings
"What is it?" Poppy asked, looking down at the serious child.
"Could one of your potions help mum and dad give me a brother or a sister?" Harry asked hopefully.
"Possibly," the school nurse allowed.
"What do you want? I'll give you anything I have," the boy offered calmly.
"I . . ." the school healer trailed off when she got a look at the firm determination shining out of the boy's eyes. "I'll just write them a letter, shall I?"
Omake by meteoricshipyards
Harry gazed at the giant squid and thought about how much it would sell for at the market. That Japanese buyer always bought any squid they caught - he'd at least give them something for it.
"I said needle, Mr. Potter. What is that?"
"It's a garfish, Professor. It popped into my mind as I cast the spell."
"Why would a garfish pop into your mind at that time?"
"It's also called a needle fish."
Beta by dogbertcarroll
Scene/Omake by Doghead Thirteen
This would be one very different Marge, and a Harry who won't bat an eyelid at playing Quidditch in strong winds, something like:
"It's going to be a bit of a brute of a match," Oliver warned. "The forecast says wind gusting up to force seven and heavy rain. Taking the Puffs on in this isn't going to be fun."
There was a round of solemn nodding throughout the Gryffindor team, with the exception of their Seeker.
"Force seven?" Harry asked. "That isn't even a proper gale! We get that nearly every week in the winter and it's not enough to stop anyone going to sea, well, unless they've got a really small boat. They won't even stop the ferries for force seven."
"... What?" said Fred.
"Well there's nothing between an t-Eilean Fada and Canada but a few thousand miles of water," Harry told him. "That's quite a lot of fetch, and the more fetch the bigger a wind you'll get. We get force ten gales four or five times a winter, and I've seen it touch force eleven a time or two."
Addition by laros_deejay
"Might I point out to you then, young Mr Potter, that the brooms employed by the players during a Quidditch match are quite a bit smaller than 'a really small boat'. Quidditch isn't cross-continental haulage and these brooms are no skytrains."
Response by Cal
Harry's tone was that of one adressing a simpleton or very young child as he responded;
"The reason it'll stop a small boat is the sea getting high enough to come over her gunwhales if it hits her broadside," he said, "Not because the wind will blow her over or anything; it'll batter a lorry or a train around, but that's because unlike a boat or someone on a broom those have huge flat sides acting like ginormous sails; once you've taken the water out of the equation, up until around force nine the smaller something is the less the wind will hit it. Force seven doesn't even make it difficult to walk. Oh sure, gusts will push you around a bit before that, but may I remind you that when you're flying you've got lots of nice empty sky between you and anything a gust could push you into?"
He pointed into the sky, at where gulls were visible spiralling lazily in the crisp, clean pre-gale air;
"See them? They think that the wind is the finest toy in the world; it has to be one Hell of a storm to get the gulls to stay at home."
Further addition by laros_deejay
"Except of course right below you."
Further response by Cal
"There's just as much of a chance for controlled flight into terrain any time that you're in the air; if you're afraid of -that- you shouldn't be on a broom -anyway-."
Addition by IofTheBunny
The unholy fire lit Olivers eyes.
"Do you know anyplace near your home where we could train?"
AN: t-Eilean Fada - Scots Gaelic; 'The Long Island'. Refers to the island that makes up Lewis and Harris in the Outer Hebrides; Lewis was grabbed out the bits-of-Scotland as it is one of the most storm-blasted places in Britain due to there being nothing but water from there to the Americas. - Doghead Thirteen
Beta by dogbertcarroll