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EPILOGUE
18 September, 1981
History only requires the smallest of changes to have rippling effects, yet those changes are always attributed to a major decision, something with the implications to change the world. Often, it is those smaller things that truly shape our world, and when a prophecy was spoken and delivered to the Dark Lord, perhaps the smallest change of all happened. Severus Snape, long since a broken and bitter man for what had happened with him and his best friend, felt a stirring in his heart, a need to protect her and her child.
With his resolve in place, Severus took to the near impossible task of convincing the Dark Lord that the Longbottom boy was the threat. Hours upon hours of arguments later, the Dark Lord reluctantly admitting he would consider both boys as viable threats, not just the half-blood. With a heavy heart, knowing he was condemning one child to death, Severus turned to direct lies, coming to the Dark Lord often with feats of incredible accidental magic the Longbottom boy had performed, further trying to enforce the idea that he was the boy the prophecy spoke of.
So the plan was enacted, and Severus was given the role of stalling Dumbledore, enabling the Dark Lord the time he required. If he had he known that the Lestrange's were being dispatched to the Potter's, if he had known that his decision to make the Dark Lord target Longbottom would ruin their world, perhaps he would have chosen differently. Yet in that moment, he left with high hopes, proud to have saved the woman who he loved.
And so the first string of fate is pulled.
1st November, 1981
Albus Dumbledore was, by all accounts, a good and righteous man. A defender of rights, a protector of the innocent, his name had been touted as the embodiment of all things good in magic in recent years. In his own mind though, Albus was more than aware of his faults and his growing age. That had never been more evident than now, as he stared down at the orphaned Potter boy he had failed, along with so many others in past years. As he strolled down down the muggle sidewalk, taking in the odd consistency of the neighborhood, he heard a cat's meow. Glancing down, he took in the tabby's form with a smile.
"I should have known you would be here, Professor McGonagall," he said pleasantly, as if he wasn't insane for speaking to a cat. Said cat responded by seemingly morphing between one moment and the next, transforming into a tall, older woman, her large hat and flowing green dress separating her from the almost dull setting they were in.
"So the rumors are true, Albus?" The woman inquired, eyes on the bundle in Dumbledore's arms, heart heavy as she remembered her students who had passed that night. Dumbledore just chuckled, seemingly unfazed and even merry despite the tragedies of tonight.
"Indeed so Minerva, indeed so. The young Neville Longbottom has defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort, I have verified it for myself. Neville, surprisingly, is fine, aside from a rather nasty curse scar that I was unable to remove. Already there are rumors he is being hailed as the boy-who-lived throughout Europe," Dumbledore explained. While speaking, he had begun to stride forward, heading towards a house at the end of the neighborhood.
"Why are we here Albus? I spent the evening watching these muggles and they seem to be the worst sort, you can't possibly imagine leaving a child with those two," Minerva demanded, stomping alongside the man as her heart ached for the young boy's parents, already committed to St. Mungo's for further testing. She could not, would not, allow the child of some of her favorite students to be raised with such contempible people.
"Alas, they are the only family left to young Lily, and we have very few options left," Albus replied, seemingly unfazed by her anger as he continued forward.
"Lily and James would not want their child raised by these people and you know it Albus!" Minerva bellowed, enraged. Had Dumbledore not had the good sense to apply a minor silencing charm to their area, he was sure they would've alerted the entire neighborhood. Idly, he realized that Minerva was still screaming at him. "... and so help me Albus, if you leave him with those muggles I will kidnap him and raise him myself!"
With a raised eyebrow, Albus examined his transfiguration professor with a degree of alarm. Perhaps the war and the stress of the night, with her former favorite student having been tortured into mindlessness, was too much for her. He sighed, realized that for someone who had stood by him as Minerva had, he could make this concession. He raised his hand, stopping her tirade short, weighing his words before he spoke.
"Then perhaps I can speak to some old friends. There is a rather luxurious orphanage I am friends with the director of, and perhaps they would be willing to take in young Harry here." Despite his words, Minerva's eyes were still shining with anger, though her angry shouting did not return.
"Merlin help you Albus, they had better treat that child as if he was their own, or I will be dealing with you personally!" It was an empty threat, they both knew, but Albus was content to let her vent her anger. Many tragedies had occurred tonight, and he could not blame one who had not lived through what he had for reacting negatively.
And so the second string was pulled.
17th October, 1988
Harry Potter knew that he was different. It should've been obvious, in retrospect, he was the only child at Elizabeth's Home for Children who knew his birthday after all, the others all choosing an important date from the Bible to celebrate their days of birth. But when he began to develop his power, Harry realized exactly how different. It had started before he was even conscious of it, molding his brain, improving his development as he took in his different caretaker's words and teachings. Then the accidents started. Pencils would fly to him, random items would catch on fire, people would start speaking in limericks. It had created a strained environment in the orphanage, an unspoken agreement to never mention the events, hoping they would stop happening.
It all came to a head on his eighth birthday, when the candles on his cake ignited before anyone was ready, flames larger than a human sparking off of them as the caretakers sung him a birthday song. One of the caretakers, a burly man named Johann, was severely burned, needing immediate medical attention. Events snowballed quickly, leading to Harry Potter sitting in the orphanage directors office, tears streaking his face as he was told he wouldn't be welcomed back, a devil's child like himself not fit to walk the halls of their blessed home.
Which led Harry to where he was now, curled into the corner of an alley as he watched people pass, many glancing at him and away quickly, as if they couldn't bear to see a child in his state. Yet none were willing to help, Harry thought bitterly, witnessing the casual cruelty of people, knowing he would've helped in an instant if he could. His body, weak from hunger, trembled as Harry tried to push himself upwards, leaning against the wall as he stumbled. I am strong pounded in his head over and over, a silent mantra in his mind as he dug through the trash can he had laid himself near, silently thanking God as he found a half eaten burger, still looking edible. With a grimace on his face at being forced to eat trash again, Harry bit down quickly, savoring the taste of something filling at least.
With food in his stomach, he set out into the night, eyes studying the darkness as he debated his next move. He wasn't old enough to work, and people had been remarkably merciless with giving him change. His only hope was his power now, and Harry again desperately wished he could control it, yet it refused to answer his call when he needed it. Shaking the thought from his head, Harry set forward. He didn't have a plan yet, but he would survive these streets. No, scratch that, he would thrive, or his name wasn't Harry Potter.
And so the third string was pulled.
29th March, 1989
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
It was the only thing that poured through Harry's head as he ran, arms pumping furiously as he rounded a corner, catching a glimpse of the enraged man as he did. In the last few months, Harry had adjusted remarkably well, as it turned out his power had been helping him, even if he hadn't realized it. As near as he could tell, it was infusing his muscles, giving him strength and speed no eighth year old should have, as he'd discovered the first time he'd been mugged. Another benefit that he had noticed was that Harry was far calmer and more mature than other children his age, as he had observed when he watched a school trip to a nearby museum, confused as he watched the kids giggle and meander meaninglessly as their teachers guided them around, didn't they want to learn? It also seemed to help with stealth, as Harry had discovered when he pickpocketed a man rather poorly, only for the man's eyes to slide right over Harry as if he wasn't there when he turned in rage.
Perhaps the most important thing that Harry had learned in his short time on the streets of London though, was that others also had power. It had been shocking to Harry the first time he saw a man in robes wave a stick in the store, only for that familiar feeling that accompanied his power to be felt as the saleslady let the man leave without paying. Now, he had become rather adept at spotting the power-wielders, who stuck out like a sore thumb against the dreary background of London.
Which led him to now, running from one of those users after stealing their stick. In his short observations it seemed like these sticks helped them channel power somehow, letting them use it how they pleased, which was attractive to the young Harry, who had yet to find a way to control his power on his own. Perhaps not my best idea, Harry mused as he turned another corner, exhaustion starting to prick at his lungs as he dove into a nearby alley, hiding beneath some trash bags. A bit dirty, sure, but Harry had had to do worse to stay alive so far, he wasn't worried about some filth on his clothes.
As the man in robes sprinted past swearing loudly, Harry held his breath, seconds away from freedom. As the man turned the far corner, he finally released his breath, heart soaring as he stared down at the stick. Now he could finally figure out his power, make his life easier than constantly stealing and hunting his next meal. After waiting until the adrenaline had faded, Harry extracted himself from the trash bags, heading back to his tent in the forest with a spring in his step.
His tent wasn't much, but it was his. Bought with his own money. That he had stolen of course, but Harry had learned not to obsess over the details, it only led to him having a headache. Holding the stick in one hand, Harry looked around the tent in apprehension before he stepped away, remembering his tendency to catch things on fire. Waving the stick, Harry focused on the feeling he remembered as his power surged when the pens in his room flew to him. He pointed the long piece of wood at a nearby stone, focusing on that feeling, and begged his power to work.
The stone lifted slightly, wobbled, and dropped back down, having moved maybe a centimeter from it's previous spot. Harry exhaled, examining the stick in confusion. He was sure the robed man had been using it when he had created those bank notes from thin air, and he distinctly remembered a single spark shooting from the stick as he had wrenched it from the man's hand as he ran by.
Perhaps Harry simply needed to change his approach? Holding the stick forward, he concentrated on the feeling the man's power had made when he created the bank notes, and attempted to replicate it with his own power. It was odd, he realized, attempting to mold his power to do something when he didn't actually know what he was doing. When he felt that it was similar to what the man had done, Harry gave the stick a wave like he had seen the man do, and felt a pull on his power, as if it was being used. A small pop, a strain as his power flowed around the stick, and then nothing again. With a frown, Harry examined the stick, squatting down to consider how he could make his power work.
And so the fourth string was pulled.
July 19th, 1991
Albus looked up with a startled expression as the door to his office was thrown open, the wood cracking from the impact as it slammed into the wall. He had just settled in from another day of heavy preparations for the new school year, the arrangements for housing the Philosopher's Stone taking an extraordinary amount of extra strain. So he was most certainly not expecting to see his transfiguration professor storming into his office when she should be sending out the letters for the coming school year, nostrils flaring like a dragon as she waved a letter in his face.
"YOU PROMISED ME HE WOULD BE SAFE ALBUS, YOU TOLD ME HE WOULD BE WELL CARED FOR," the Scotswoman roaring as she shoved a letter into his face, his eyes taking a second to adjust before he read the letter, heart dropping as he processed what the address quill had written down.
Mr. H. Potter
Tent in the Woods
Highgate Wood
London
Dumbledore set his glasses on the desk, pinching his nose as he tried to process this new information. A wizard child, living in the woods? The very idea would've been sacrilege to the higher ups in their society, who treated magical children in even higher regard since the previous war and Voldemort's atrocities. As much as he despised the idea of acting so selfishly, Dumbledore knew Voldemort was still alive, and he would need his reputation intact for the day he made his return.
"Minerva, we cannot let this get out to the public. At least not my placement of him in the orphanage. You know as well as I do the threat is not over, and I cannot be put out because of this. Send one of the teachers who can keep a secret, perhaps Filius," Albus instructed, eyes hard as he regarded Minerva, watching her anger falter as his words sunk in. He could tell she didn't want to help him in this moment, but the staff had been informed of the blight still present in their world, and the way her lips pursed as she took in his words told him all he needed to know.
"Fine, I'll send Filius, but I swear to you this isn't over Albus, you are not off the hook for this just yet," the woman practically hissed, spinning on her heel and exiting the office, a snarl on her face. Albus looked after her with a sad look in his eyes, well aware he may have destroyed his Deputy Headmistress's trust in him completely by this point. At least Filius would be able to guide the child properly into their new world, hopefully circumspectly.
And so the fifth string is pulled.
1st September, 1991
Harry glanced around the Great Hall in interest, though far more reserved than most of the other eleven year olds surrounding him. It had been one shock after the other in the days preceding and following his birthday. First had come the letter, informing him he was magical and was invited to a school for others like him. Then had come the diminutive Professor Flitwick, appearing outside his tent like he belonged there, who had introduced himself as a dueling champion and teacher at Hogwarts. Perhaps the biggest shock of all, was Harry's discovery of his parent's fate.
Contrary to his belief, his parents were in fact alive. Anger had surged through him quickly, only to be replaced with ice cold despair when Professor Flitwick informed him of their true fate. Tortured to insanity by a group of magical terrorists, they currently resided in a special wing of the magical hospital specializing in madness. His heart had torn as he saw his parents for the first time, the professor quietly standing by his side as he wept for their fate.
With knowledge of what happened to them, as well as his own stick, his wand, properly attuned to him in his pocket, he felt his resolve harden. The doctors and Professor Flitwick had all told him his parents were beyond hope. They had all given up, but not Harry. One way or another, Harry would become strong enough to save his parents. He would see their smile and their pride one day.
With that knowledge in his mind, Harry felt no fear as his name was called during the Sorting. He felt no fear as he sat on the stool, the wide brim of the hat covering his head. And he felt no fear when the hat, with no hesitation, opened it's mouth wide and exclaimed in the loudest voice it had all night.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The final string is pulled, and history as we know it unravels.