MetaFic

31 Oct 1981

The small cottage had a gaping hole in the upper level, the construction materials poking outward mute evidence to the explosion that had occurred inside. No smoke or evidence of fire was present. There was only a scattering of wood, brick, and detritus across the garden.

“That's it, then,” Hagrid said in a quaking voice, the normally powerful man reduced to a deeply shaken child. “It's over.”

Albus Dumbledore sighed. The body was there, and Hagrid had reluctantly brought it down from the upper story. Voldemort's corpse was a silent testament to the outcome of the evening, but nothing was quite right about the situation. The tragic loss of James and Lily Potter had nothing to do with the real problem.

The child in his arms was the focal point of the problem, although thankfully the boy was now in a magically induced sleep. He had a clear wound from a failed Dark Curse, and Albus could only think of one curse that Voldemort would use against a potential child of prophecy. Yet the killing curse had never failed before, which made the first anomaly. The absence of Voldemort's wand was the second anomaly. The fact that the body at his feet was, in fact, quite deceased was normal. The abnormal aspect was the lack of response to the Essence Test, which indicated that the body at his feet had never housed a soul, something that defied all logic and precedent. That made the third anomaly.

“Perhaps, Hagrid,” Albus said after a moment. “For now, I must deal with this situation. I have a request of you, however.”

Hagrid was studiously avoiding looking anywhere near the three bodies on the ground while doing his best to use a tablecloth sized towel to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. “Anything, Professor,” he said after a violent expulsion from his nose.

Albus carefully handed over the baby wrapped in blankets. “I have put a mild sleeping charm on young Harry. I need you to take him to his relatives in Surrey.” Albus briefly recalled that he had a piece of parchment with the names and addresses of all the immediate, living relatives for both the Potters and the Longbottoms. A quick rummage of his robes found the list, which he handed over to Hagrid after quickly scanning it. “Petunia Dursley, at Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging.”

Hagrid cradled the baby in one hand. The child was so small in comparison that Hagrid's left hand appeared to be consuming the child as a snack. “Right, sir, I'll do that now.”

“Very well, Hagrid. Travel safely, and I will meet you there. In the meantime, I must summon the Aurors, and then the Obliviators.” Albus already knew there were too many curious Muggles roaming about, exclaiming at each other over the unusual situation. It had been scant minutes since the alarms had gone off, and already a small crowd was beginning to gather. And he had little hope of securing the time to test the scene in private. In all, it would have likely been a futile period trying to understand why the rules of magic had twisted together so violently in a display of non-compliance.

1 Nov 1981

Petunia Dursley was in a rage, one she was impotent to display. That spiteful old man and his unnaturalness had forced this upon her – a derelict thing in a basket she wanted nothing to do with. She was normal, she was not a freak. That had been made abundantly clear years before. And now, despite her clear messages to all of those types, she was being dragged back into situations she never wanted to be in.

“I'll not tolerate this!” she shouted, finally letting her anger out.

Two wailing voices started up almost immediately, and she was hard pressed to keep her sanity as she spent time trying to calm the two boys. Her child was perfect, perfectly normal. This other thing was anything but normal.

She hated that old man for his chicanery and conveniently selective memory. He knew that she wanted nothing to do with their lot, and he had ignored her wishes. Glaring at the snuffling child with the slowly oozing wound, she snatched the letter up and read it again. No, the words had not changed. It spelled out exactly what the situation was.

By accepting young Harry into your home this morning, you have sealed your family into a magical contract . . .

The gall, the hypocrisy, of that man to trick her into this – this debacle! It was tempting to test the contract and just drop the boy off at the nearest hospital. But she knew how rigid magic could be, how inflexible the rules were.

. . . protection, and as long as Harry may call the place where you dwell 'home' in truth, then the protections will remain in effect. Your safety, and Harry's safety, are henceforth entwined and must grow together. You must nourish his understanding of 'home' accordingly, such that . . .

Home, indeed! She wanted the boy out, for if he stayed, he would corrupt everything her life had become. That man might have tricked her into this, but she knew he spelled out exactly the conditions she had to live under. It was a form of hijacking, she realised. She had been railroaded into this without so much as a 'by your leave' to make it smell better.

There was something there, however, in those words. The boy would have to call where she lived home, but did that mean he had to actually live there? Quickly, she read the letter through again. No, it was quite clear – he did not have to abide at the same house, her merely had to think of where she abode as home.

The boys were becoming increasingly fussy, and she knew that it was time for a feeding. But she had a few moments more, and that was all she needed. She rushed to the cupboard and quickly reached under the bottom shelf, extracting an old, ratty volume. Gathering pen, paper, envelope, and stamp, she hurried back into the living room. The boys had moved around some but were fine.

Sitting on the sofa and using a book for a lapboard, she quickly wrote her letter. She still had enough time to get it out in the morning post.

Mr Severus Snape,

I know it has been years since we last talked, but I am in urgent need of your assistance. It is critical that . . .