Marie Potter and the Philosophers Stone

Just your typical Harry has a sister fanfic but very Un-Cliche. Lots of OC's and a unique plot. Originally posted on Quotev.

0Likes
0Comments
627Views
AA

1. The Children Who Lived And An Escape To Spinners End

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

  Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he had a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursley had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere.

  The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and it was their greatest fear that someone would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met in several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son and daughter but had never even seen them. These children were another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his highchair.

  None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

  At half-past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the check, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

  It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar: a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen: then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in the mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive: no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

  But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes: the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt: these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

  Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though the people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

  He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the bakers. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him feel uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

  "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard-"

  "-yes, their son, Harry-"

  Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

  He dashes back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her: if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

  He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left at five o' clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone right outside the door.

  "Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

  And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off. 

  Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had just been hugged by a complete stranger. He also had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

  As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw, and it didn't improve his mood, was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

  "Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

  The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

  Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

  "And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls usually hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

  "Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early: it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

  Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

  Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er... Petunia, dear... you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

  As he expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

  "No," she said sharply. "Why?"

  "Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

  "So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

  "Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

  Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd hear the name 'Potter.' He decided he didn't dare. Instead, he said, as casually as he could,

  "Their son: he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

  "I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

  " What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

  "Harry. Nasty common name, if you ask me."

  "Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

  He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

  Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of: well, he didn't think he could bear it.

  The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on, he yawned and turned over, it couldn't affect them...

  How very wrong he was.

  Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside showed no signs of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

  A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

  Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

  Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he as being watched because he looked up at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

  He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again; the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

  "Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

  He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead, he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

  "How did you know it was me?" she asked.

  "My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

  "You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

  "All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

  Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

  "Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no; even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent; I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

  "You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

  "I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the street in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

  She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?

  "It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "we have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

  "A what?"

  "A lemon drop. They're a Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

  "No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone-"

  "My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense; for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort ." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. " It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

  "I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

  "You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

  "Only because you're too, well, noble to use them."

  "It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

  Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing compared to the rumors that are flying around. About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

  It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

  "What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James are... are... that they're... dead."

  Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

  "Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."

  Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

  Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's children, Harry and Marie. But, he couldn't. He couldn't kill those little children. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry and Marie Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke; and that's why he's gone."

  Dumbledore nodded glumly.

  "It's... it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill those little children? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did they survive?"

  "We can only guess," Dumbledore said. "We may never know."

 Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

  "Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

  "I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

  "You don't mean... you can't mean the people that live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore, you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son, I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

  "It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter. As for Marie, she is at her godfather's."

  "A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous, a legend, so will his sister; I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry and Marie Potter day in the future; there will be books written about them, every child in our will know their names!"

  "Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn anyone's head. Famous before the boy can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

  Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes...yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore? She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

  "Hagrid's bringing him."

  "You think it, wise, to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

  "I would trust Hagrid with my life," 

  "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to... what was that?"

  A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them. 

  If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing compared to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild, long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

  “Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

  “Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

  “No problems, were there?”

  “No, sir, house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”

  Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

  “Is that where ...?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

  “Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

  “Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

  “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well, give him here, Hagrid; we’d better get this over with.”

  Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house.

  “Could I, could I say goodbye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

  “Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”

  “S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it... Lily an’ James dead... an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles,”

  “Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

  “Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”

  “Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

  Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar, it rose into the air and off into the night.

  “I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

  Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner, he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

  “Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

  A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter; the boy who lived!”

Marie's POV, October 31, 1981

  Marie Lily Potter was bored. She was tired of being cooped up in their small home in Godric's Hollow with nothing to do but sit and wait. For what? she didn't know, though she guessed it was the end of the war her parents talked about. She missed her friends Elizabeth (Emily) Rose Black, Penelope (Penny) Taylor Pettigrew and though nobody else knew Sara Nymphadora Lupin.

  The reason nobody else knew of Sara's existence was that she was from a different time though she would never tell her fellow marauders anything about her time other than the fact that she was born in 1998. Apparently, she had an older friend who worked in the Department of Mysteries and was able to get her hands on a time turner that could go forward and backward in time. Sometimes she would come over on weekends but it was always sad when she had to go as she was such a nice burst of happiness in these times of darkness.

  Marie tended to notice things about her friends, no matter how much they try to hide it. Last time all her friends were together she noticed how Penny kept clutching her left arm and wincing. Whenever Sara caught sight of Marie's parent through a crack in the door or from under the bed (as she had to stay hidden) she would tend to go quiet for the rest of the day. Emily noticed these things too, but she did tend to have her fathers tack; and would point it out to them. Penny and Sara would try to reassure them that all was okay, not that they really believed it.

  Despite the fact they were all only about two years old they had always been smart for their age, often creating elaborate pranks or studying a large Defence Against The Dark Arts book when together. Her dad had once said that they would not only be the next marauders once they got to Hogwarts, but also top of their class.

  Marie's emerald eyes roved over the small kitchen, watching her mother clean up after dinner, her dark red hair, so much like Marie's falling gracefully over her shoulders. Her sweet voice cut through Marie's thoughts of her friends, secret or not, odd behavior.

  "Marie, darling, could you please go tell your father it's time to put Harry to bed."  

  Snapping out of her state of deep thought she replied, "Okay, mum," and jumped from her chair and onto the floor. Her little feet pattered across the kitchen floor heading for their sitting room. Her father, a tall black-haired man with glasses, was creating puffs of multicolored smoke with his wand for the entertainment of her little brother in his blue pajamas, who was trying to catch the smoke in his small fists. 

  "Daddy, Mum said it's time to put Harry to bed now."

  "Five more minutes?"

  Marie giggled, her hair turning a bright pink as it usually did when she was happy. Nobody knew why she was a Metamorphmagus as no one in the family was one.

  "James, Harry has to go to bed." Her mother had appeared behind her, hands on hips, trying to appear stern but the corners of her mouth creeping up her face betrayed her evident amusement. 

  Her father scooped up Harry and handed him to her mother. He threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning.

  The door burst open. He came over the threshold as Marie and her father came sprinting into the hall. Lord Voldemort was every bit as terrifying as she had pictured: Tall and thin robed in all black, a face whiter than a skull with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a flat nose with slits for nostrils, like a snakes.

  "Lily, take Harry and Marie and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

  "I'm not leaving you, dad!"

  Voldemort laughed, pointing his wand at her face...

She was being roughly pushed to the side as a green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glow like lightning rods, and her father fell like a marionette whose strings were cut.

  Marie screamed. Anger, fear and a great sadness filled her as she looked at her father lying on the floor.

   Voldemort laughed again that high, cold, cruel laugh as a green light and a whooshing sound filled her senses.

  She fell to the ground...

  But she couldn't be dead, she could hear Voldemort stumbling back, feel the floor beneith her, and more than anything, she could feel a splitting pain on her forehead.

  She stayed still; She would stay this way until she was out of Voldemort's sights, then she would move to try and protect her mother and brother.

  Marie waited until she could hear him get up, step over her seeming dead body and make his way up the stairs then she sprang to her feet immediately regretting it as her head felt like it was splitting open, her whole world was spinning as she almost fell over again.

  She could hear him force a door open on the upper floor, casting aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it. Forgetting about her sore head she sprinted up the stairs as fast as she could.

  Her mother had her arms wide, shielding her brother from sight as if she hoped to be chosen instead...

  "Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

  "Stand aside, you silly girl, stand aside, now."

  "Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead..."

  "This is my last warning..."

  "Not Harry! Please... have mercy... have mercy... Not Harry! Not Harry! Please, I'll do anything..."

  "Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"

  When she didn't move, a green light flashed around the room and she dropped just like her father.

  She couldn't move for fright as Voldemort moved towards her brother's crib.

  Harry had not cried all this time. He stood, clutching the bars of his crib, and he looked up into Voldemort's face with a kind of bright interest.

  Voldemort pointed his wand very carefully at her brother's face. Harry began to cry as Voldemort cast the curse...

  "Avada Kedavra!"

  And then Marie could feel Voldemort's pain and terror through the fresh cut on her forehead, hear Harry's screams...

  As the pain subsided in her head she saw that Voldemort was nothing but a pile of dust lying on the floor of the rubble of her home.

  She rushed to her screaming brother's side, standing of the tips of her toes lowering the bars of the crib.

  Harry was heavy for the small girl, but she picked him up, holding him close to her chest and sang him a lullaby in an attempt to calm him down, 

One thousand years ago this

story starts. There were four

sorcerers with strong and wise

hearts. Bold Gryffindor from wild

moor, Fair Ravenclaw from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff from valley broad, 

Shrewd Slytherin from fen. They

had a dream to teach

all that they knew. Witches

and wizards came far and

it grew, ‘Til a castle

stood tall by the shores

of a lake, and a

thousand years later the magic

remains. Old Hogwarts Sorting Hat

sing me a song, speak

in my head tell me

where I belong. And when

things look bad and there’s

nowhere to run, unite all

the houses and we’ll fight

as one. Brave Godric Gryffindor

favored the strong, those who

had courage and knew right

from wrong. And Rowena Ravenclaw

taught only the best, so

kind Helga Hufflepuff would teach

all the rest. But Salazar

Slytherin had is own plans,

he thought the Muggle-borns

didn’t understand, the subtleties of

magic and so he devised

The Chamber of Secrets with

a monster inside. Old Hogwarts

Sorting Hat sing me a

song. Speak in my head

tell me where I belong.

And when things look bad

and there’s nowhere to run,

unite all the houses and

we’ll fight as one. Old

Hogwarts Sorting Hat sing me

a song. Speak in my

head tell me where I

belong. And when things look

bad and there’s nowhere to

run, unite all the houses

and we’ll fight as one.

Unite all the houses and

we’ll fight as one.

  Harry had stopped crying. Setting him back down in his crib, Marie did some very quick thinking.

  She had once read in one of her grandfather Potter's old books about Bonds of Blood: When someone loves you so much that are willing to throw themselves at the face of death to protect them it leaves a sort of protection, what that protection was she didn't know, but she did know that Harry would have to go to her Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.

  As her father had no living family she would go to one of the only places she felt safe anymore; her Godfather, Severus Snape's house. If she went with her brother she may unintentionally put him in danger.

  That was the last thing she wanted.

  Her Godfather was a Professor at Hogwarts and a very skilled wizard so he would be able to teach her what she needed to know and once she was able to hold her own she would come for Harry.

  She turned her back on the brother's crib feeling sick to her stomach as she saw the body of her mother on the floor. Tears prickling in her eyes, she swept from the room, head down, a heavy feeling in her chest.

  She climbed down the stairs, and had to choke back a sob as she caught sight of her father lying on the ground. He could have been sleeping... or at least that's what she tried to convince herself, trying to stay strong as she went out into the back garden, toward the broom shed.

  Taking out her Cleansweep 5 she mounted the broom and kicked up off the ground. As she climbed higher and higher she looked back down at her now ruined 'home'. She saw the Hogwarts Gamekeeper, Hagrid entering the house.

  Good, Marie thought. Hagrid will take him to safety.

  She made it to her Godfather's small home on Spinners End without incident. Landing her broom right in front of the door, she dismounted and took the key out from under the doormat and let herself in, not knowing how her brother would fair these next couple years at the Dursley's, she walked over the threshold, closing the door behind her. She didn't look back...

Hello I originally put this story on Quotev but I thought I would also put it on here. Tell me what you think.

XOXO Mandy

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...